


Touch

by TheManicMagician



Category: Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance, The power of friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5790649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheManicMagician/pseuds/TheManicMagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lon'qu doesn't quite understand it, and cannot explain it; but there's something about Robin that fascinates him. Features M!Robin/Lon'qu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lon'qu hasn't been with the Ylissean Shepherds long. Merely a handful of weeks have passed since Prince Chrom triumphed over the West Khan's champion, and Lon'qu's blade was presented to him as a gift. Merely a handful of weeks, yes, but it is more than enough time for him to bitterly curse Khan Basilio a thousand times over for lending him out to the Ylisseans.

They are all  _too nice_ , gratingly so. The prince he can understand. It is his political obligation to appear affable and obliging. But all of them, from the knights to the mages, have clearly cut time into their schedules to interact with him. Stahl cajoled him into going with him for a potion-shopping trip into the city that Lon'qu couldn't care less about. Miriel has asked him—numerous times, with increasing enthusiasm—if he wants to volunteer as a subject in one of her experiments. Just this morning, Prince Chrom's little sister had latched onto his arm—making his heart rate spike and his stomach roil—and tried to drag him to teatime with her. He was only able to worm free from attending by insisting he  _absolutely needed_ to run through his sword cadences  _this exact instant_. Her brief touch bothers him still. His heart rate is never as accelerated as he goes through the familiar motions as it is now.

Lon'qu doesn't understand why they persist in pestering him. He thought he had made his stance quite clear, from their very first encounter. He does as he is ordered. He was ordered to join them. He said nothing about requiring, or even wanting any interaction save for what was necessary. At Ferox the others knew to keep their distance, especially the women. Every time Sully unabashedly slaps him on the back or Sumia unintentionally trips into him it is as if a wyvern takes a hold of his nerves in its mighty jaws and chews them to scraps.

He had hoped to escape to the training ground, but even there he finds no respite. He has only gotten through three motions when the nape of his neck prickles; someone is watching.

Lon'qu whirls around, sword raised and ready to strike. But it is no risen undead, nor a would-be assassin. It is Robin.

The tactician's eyes widen—he hadn't anticipated Lon'qu reacting as such—and he raises his arms in a show of surrender. In Chon'sin, such a response would have him dead in days.

"Easy, Lon'qu, it's only me."

Except there is nothing "only" about this man. He claims to be a Ylissean, but Lon'qu would be a fool not to notice how distinctly Plegian the tactician is. Even if the mark of Grima was not tattooed on his hand, his robes still baldly identify him as a priest of the Grimleal. Truly, what is Chrom thinking, having a  _Plegian_ as his master tactician in a  _war against Plegia_?

Lon'qu does not trust this man, but even he is capable of erecting a façade if he must. Though Robin makes him feel almost as on-edge as he feels around women, he is sure nothing in his body language betrays his discomfort. He smoothly returns his blade to its sheath, then lets his hands rest idly at his side. Robin, seeing that the swordsman's survival instincts have calmed, lowers his hands again.

"What is it?" Lon'qu demands, gruffly. "I thought there were three hours yet until we had to move out."

Robin blinks. "Well, yes."

"So what is it?"

"I just—well…" He laughs, scratching at his nose a bit sheepishly. Lon'qu feels a small spark of irritation, and knows it will grow to an inferno if Robin does not soon make his point or leave.

"I've seen you practicing before. Your style is extraordinary; a perfect blend of accuracy, power, and speed. I've never seen anything like it—at least, that I can remember." The tactician supposedly has amnesia. While it would certainly explain why a Plegian has no qualms helping a Ylissean, Lon'qu remains skeptical. It is all too clean cut. "Would you mind teaching me a few moves?"

Now  _that_ is unexpected. Lon'qu doesn't want to step on the man's toes—he is one of the prince's most trusted advisors, after all—but he has no desire to be saddled with him for weeks on end out of politeness.

"I am no teacher. Besides, you are of Ylisse." Supposedly. "The knights of your people have their own style. You would be better served learning from Frederick."

"Oh, I already am." Robin dismisses it with a wave of his hand. Lon'qu is aware of how brutal Frederick's training regimen is. And yet he wishes to increase his work even further with additional training? He must be mad.

"But with the two styles being so different," Robin continues, "why not learn what both can offer? It's possible a mix of the two would be stronger than either one alone."

"Very well. Draw your sword." If he fights Robin at close to his full strength, the tactician, more comfortable with a book in his hand than a sword, will give up the idea of training with him altogether after one session.

"Wait, we're jumping right into sparring?"

"I told you. I am no teacher. You will have to learn for yourself. Now come!"

Lon'qu has already talked far more than he prefers. He draws his sword once more and raises it into a defensive stance.

"So be it!" Robin is quick to tackle the challenge Lon'qu has set before him. He draws his own blade. It's nothing special, but at least it's been forged from iron, not bronze.

He charges towards the myrmidon with a battle cry. Lon'qu shifts his stance slightly as he recalls previous fights with Ylisseans. Robin would feint towards the right, then aim for the left, as most men are right-handed, and thus more vulnerable on their left when without shields.

As predicted, the tactician feints right. Lon'qu brings his blade up to counter him, but then Robin surprises him by feinting  _again_ —he intends to attack from the right after all. Lon'qu darts back, putting more distance between them. Robin doesn't give him much time, though, before he charges at him again.

"You'll only tire yourself out like this." Lon'qu warns him. He curses himself immediately. That is the point—to trounce Robin so thoroughly he'll never bother him again. He shouldn't offer advice.

Robin doesn't respond verbally, instead repeating the same motions he had before. Now that riles Lon'qu. He asks for advice, and yet ignores it when given. Fine then. As Robin feints yet again, Lon'qu raises his sword to deal the blow that will end the duel. But Robin's free hand shoots out, grasping Lon'qu's wrist. He squeezes at just the right pressure point. Were Lon'qu an average warrior, he would reflexively open his hand, dropping his blade. But unfortunately for the tactician, Lon'qu has spent the bulk of his life fighting and training. Such a simple trick won't work on him. Robin's dark eyes widen as he realizes this. He instantly releases his hold on the other man, stumbling back to regain some distance.

But Lon'qu doesn't wait for him to regain his footing—this time, he's the one on the offensive. Robin manages to deflect each jab with his own sword, but Lon'qu knows he is the superior swordsman. Within moments, Robin is sure to slip up, and the match will be decided. Robin must know so as well, but Lon'qu notes with no small amount of satisfaction that he doesn't give up, even slightly. He knows the fight is helpless, but he still fights ardently, with all he has.

"Robin! There you are!" Prince Chrom's voice rings out.

Robin's eyes instinctively snap in the direction of the prince's voice. His defenses lower, but Lon'qu is already mid-way through his stab, and can't stop it now. He jerks his blade to the side, just nicking Robin's cheek. The tactician hisses, pressing a hand to the cut. Blood wells out between his fingers and trickles down his face.

"I am sorry for wounding you. It was not my intention."

But instead of the anger he expects, Robin just flashes him a self-deprecating grin.

"It's alright, really. It was my own fault for looking away." Robin speaks between pants. He's soaked in sweat, eyes bright with the exercise. Lon'qu wonders if he attacks everything in life with such vigor. He himself would find it exhausting. Lon'qu opens his mouth to respond, but by now Chrom has jogged up to them.

"Lon'qu." The prince nods shortly at him before returning the brunt of his attention to Robin. He eyes the cut. "You alright?"

"I think I'll pull through somehow," Robin jokes. "What did you want, Chrom?"

"I wanted to go over the plans for the march with you one last time."

"Of course."

"But first we're stopping at the infirmary to get that patched up." Chrom is friendly, but firm.

"Of course," Robin rolls his eyes, but goes along with it, good-naturedly.

Robin and Chrom leave Lon'qu alone then, the former promising to give him a rematch some other time.

At last, Lon'qu is left to his own devices. He resumes the cadences he had begun before the tactician interrupted him. But as he goes through the familiar motions, his mind does not go to a relaxed, serene place as it normally does. Against his will, he continues to turn over in his mind what has just happened, and what is yet to come. Chrom had interrupted them before Lon'qu could defeat Robin. So at some point in the near future, the tactician is going to pester him again.

His sword cuts through the empty air, an imagined enemy. Again, again. His aim is always off, a hair away from his usual perfection. Lon'qu sheaths his blade. There's no point in attempting to train when his mind continues to wander from the task.

* * *

 

Despite his promise of a rematch, Robin has yet to track him down since their short duel weeks ago. Granted, much has happened—only last week they had scrambled up a craggy mountain to rescue a Ylissean noble girl. The prince had acted on emotion, rising to Gangrel's bait and striking down a Plegian soldier. Now, they're marching back to the capitol to discuss war preparations. They've set up camp for the night, but the lingering sun still blankets the camp in light. It's the perfect time to get in a good spar, and the postponement of his obligation makes him restless.

Lon'qu meanders through the camp, searching for Robin's tent amidst the rows of identical pitched cloth. On an overturned log sit Sully and Stahl. She gestures grandly, going over in enthusiastic detail how she finally managed to trounce Frederick in their last duel. Stahl listens with a fond smile and warm eyes. Lon'qu jerks his gaze away from the scene.

He rounds a corner to see Frederick. The prince's lapdog is busy sharpening a stack of lances on a whetstone.

"Lon'qu," Frederick greets him, setting the lance he was working on to the side. "Is there something I can help you with?"

Part of Lon'qu wants to shake his head and walk away. He doesn't need help with something as trivial as this. But still…there  _are_  quite a lot of tents.

"Where is Robin?"

The knight points him toward a cluster of tents near the edge of camp. "Farthest one on the right."

Lon'qu leaves the man to his self-imposed chores and makes his way to Robin's tent. Once there, he ducks his head inside and looks around. Robin is tucked amongst several stacks of books. One hand holds a text as the other scratches out notes on parchment. Robin's fingertips are blackened with ink. His face has several smudges as well, presumably from when he has rubbed at his face during his reading. Lon'qu's glad to see the cut he gave him is nothing more now than a thin scab.

"Robin." The tactician gives no indication of hearing him as he turns another page in his book. "Robin." Lon'qu says again, slightly louder.

He starts, shaken out of his reading and back to reality. Some life seems to flicker back into him as his eyes drag from the page to Lon'qu. His mouth crinkles into a small smile.

"What brings you here? You're not normally one to initiate conversation."

"You had requested me."

Robin's eyebrows furrow. "Requested—ah, right. I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I've no time to spar with you today."

Lon'qu lets the tent flap shut behind him as he comes closer to the tactician. "It is not wise to neglect your training."

"I know." Robin's gaze flicks to his book, then back up to Lon'qu. He clearly wants to return to his reading. Lon'qu doesn't care.

"So take a break from your books and come spar."

Robin flashes him a glare. "You misunderstand me, Lon'qu."

"Oh?"

Robin gestures to the pile of books. Lon'qu glances at their titles— _The Strategist, Conquests of the Hero-King, Magvelian Tactics_. All books on the art of war.

"I was so focused on training my sword arm that I neglected to train my tactician's eye." His grip on his book tightens. He bows his head slightly. "And a child has suffered for my negligence."

Ricken. The boy had rashly snuck behind enemy lines to spring the noble free. As the ensuing battle raged, Robin was one of the many racing up to meet Ricken and Lady Maribelle halfway. But no one was able to reach them before a wyvern rider sliced open the boy's stomach with an axe. If Lon'qu were to enter the healing tent today, the boy would surely be there, recovering still from the grievous wound. Magic is only capable of so much.

"Don't be foolish." Robin looks up at him. "It is not a tactician's responsibility to predict and control every variable of battle."

"What is the job of a tactician if not that?" Robin retorts. "We're such a small force, Lon'qu. If the Shephards are to survive Plegia's onslaught, we must fight smart. I want to keep my friends safe, and the townspeople, and everyone else, too, and I  _can't_..."

When Robin fails to continue, Lon'qu asks: "Have you told the prince any of this?"

The tactician shakes his head. "Chrom has more than enough to worry over without me adding to the pile."

Lon'qu wants to help, but any words of comfort he can think to offer lodge in his throat. They hardly know each other; Robin would not take his words to heart. As he casts his gaze around the room as he tries to think of something to say, he finally notices how Robin's hands tremble, as well as the lack of flush in his cheeks. His eyes narrow.

"Come."

Robin sighs. "I'm not practicing with you today."

"No, you're not." Before Robin can ask: "We're going to the commissary."

* * *

 

The large tent is deserted. The usual suppertime for the Shepherds is still roughly an hour off, but Lon'qu doubts anyone would begrudge him getting some food into the tactician a little earlier. He grabs simple foods—bread, apples, jerky—and places them before Robin.

"I don't need mothering." He grumbles, but nonetheless digs in. After the first few small bites, he eats with gusto. He must not have realized how hungry he was until he began to eat.

Lon'qu drags a sack of potatoes and a bucket to the table, to keep his hands busy as Robin eats. He flicks out a knife and peels the lumpy vegetables with deft movements.

Robin swallows down a clump of jerky. "I must say you're the most efficient potato peeler I've ever seen."

"…Do you find my skills "a-peel-ing"?" Lon'qu's delivery is completely flat.

Robin gapes at him. Lon'qu fidgets as the open-mouthed stare goes on for an uncomfortably long time. Should he not have attempted humor? Just as he's about to apologize, loud laughter erupts out of Robin.

"Gods, I cannot believe it." Robin wipes away small tears of mirth from his eyes. "You made a joke."

This whole affair has been a bit embarrassing, but it has the effect Lon'qu was striving for. Between the food and the unexpected humor, Robin has started to perk up a bit.

"Jokes, potato peeling, swordplay…is there anything you don't excel at?"

Lon'qu shakes his head. "I'm hardly a great swordsman. If you saw what I have seen…if you saw him fight, you would know how far I have to go."

"You mean Basilio?"

Lon'qu tosses the now-peeled potato into the bucket, and draws another from the sack. At the mention of his Khan's name his mind returns to memories of the many battles he had with the man—every one of them lost. "His command of his weapon lends it a weight. A…depth. I may as well be swinging a feather by comparison. Knowing his power, I would not dare call myself strong." He's practiced sword cadences to perfection, but it's not even close to enough to put a dent in the Khan's defenses.

"But he's given you something to strive for. A paragon to pursue."

"Yes." Lon'qu's surprised with himself. He never volunteers personal information, and yet here he is chattering on about his life goals. He falls silent then, but Robin does not pressure him to speak further; rather, they sit in companionable silence as the tactician polishes off his meal. Once he's finished, Lon'qu sets the potato bucket to the side and stands.

"Come."

"Where are you taking me to now? I do have things to get done today."

"Come with me, Robin."

The small cheer that Lon'qu had given the tactician over the meal fades fast as Lon'qu leads him to the healing tent. The myrmidon is about to enter when he notices that Robin has stopped following him, hesitating a few feet away.

"I don't want—"

"Robin." Lon'qu's tone is firm.

"I—" He shifts his weight. For all his courage on the battlefield, he's a coward outside this tent.

"Is that—Is Robin out there?" Ricken's voice comes, weak and thready, from inside.

His voice is soft, but Lon'qu knows Robin hears him as well by the way he tenses up.

The myrmidon jerks his head in the direction of the tent and enters. The tent is small; with two proficient healers, the majority of battle wounds are completely treated on the field. Four of the five cots are empty, but on the one closest to Lon'qu is the curled form of the boy. He is suddenly struck by the boy's smallness; he hardly takes up half the bed. His color is bad, as Robin's had been earlier. Dark circles beneath his eyes stand out starkly against the pallor of his cheeks. The blanket is folded down by his waist, letting Lon'qu see the thick bandages around his torso.

In a chair by his bedside sits Lady Maribelle, who seems bemused to see him. Her gaze flicks past him and Lon'qu knows Robin has entered the tent.

"Robin." Ricken raises his head slightly off the pillow, beckoning the tactician over.

Maribelle nimbly leaves her seat, sidling closer to Lon'qu so Robin can get by. Though he stiffens at her proximity, he otherwise tamps down on his reaction.

"Ricken, I—"

"I just—"

Both pause. Ricken smiles wanly and takes the tactician's hand, giving it a tremulous squeeze.

"I just wanted to say thank you."

Robin is visibly taken aback.

"I should have died that day, but your tactics saved my life." Lon'qu can tell the mage isn't saying this just to assuage Robin's guilt; he's earnest.

When Robin starts to make choking sob sounds, the healer inclines her head toward the tent exit; Lon'qu nods. They slip out together, giving the pair privacy.

The soft discussion inside the tent is muffled by the general hustle and bustle outside of it. Lon'qu couldn't eavesdrop even if he'd wished to.

"I must say, I rather didn't expect this from you, of all people." Lady Maribelle plays with the wooden shaft of her parasol.

Lon'qu raises a raven brow. "Expect what, exactly?"

"Many of the Shepherds had the sense that something was bothering Robin, and yet no one could get him to explain himself or leave his tent." Her eyes fix upon him, shrewdly. "And yet you have managed to do both."

Lon'qu grunts, not quite knowing what to say. But the idea of him being important, being meaningful in someone's life in such a way…it makes a ball of warmth grow in his stomach.

* * *

 

Several days later, Lon'qu is idly cleaning his sword when raised voices draw him from his tent. There's some commotion from the rear; even from here, Lon'qu can feel the crackle of elemental magic in the air, the cries and moans of the undead—a Risen attack. As the myrmidon surges towards battle, those in the tents around him are roused as well.

A pit forms in his stomach as he reaches the fight. Though more Shepherds are swelling the ranks with each passing second, he knows their numbers are grossly dwarfed by those of the reanimated corpses'.

"Lon'qu!" Robin comes up to him, breathless and sweaty, a thoron tome held open in his hands. "Will you fight by my side?"

Normally, Robin would pair off with Chrom for battle. But the prince is nowhere to be seen—probably en route to the fight—and Robin needs someone to watch his back.

"I will." He eyes the sprawl of undead lumbering towards them. "But I cannot guarantee our victory."

Robin makes a sweeping gesture with his arm. The lightning magic rolls out of the tome in a hot wave, slamming into five Risen. They spasm with the lethal lightning before crumbling to the ground, dead for good this time.

"We'll win." Says the tactician, without a shred of doubt. "We will win!"

Robin charges forward, dealing the Risen horde significant damage with his magic. Lon'qu keeps pace with him, scanning the area for any threats. Nearby, Stahl, without his mount, runs through a Risen with his lance. He roughly jerks the weapon back out just in time to parry another Risen's axe. Further afield, Miriel's fire tome roasts several of the creatures. The farm boy jabs every one she brings down for extra measure. Vaike hacks down foes with his axe; Virion picks off the ones he misses, his usual flirtatious levity absent.

Robin's head whips towards the tents, away from the army. "Sully, Sumia, flank from the left!"

Distracted, he doesn't notice the Risen swordsman raising its blade to cut him down. With one hand, Lon'qu pushes the tactician out of harm's way; with the other, he blocks the enemy's sword with his own. His sword's intended for two hands, so at first it buckles slightly under the weight of the Risen's blade. Lon'qu quickly returns his other hand to the hilt, and thereafter easily takes the advantage. He pushes forward with force enough that the Risen's blade tumbles from its grasp. Enraged, it lunges for Lon'qu, only for the myrmidon to cleave its head off with one swift strike. As the Risen slumps to the ground, Lon'qu flicks his sword to remove some of its black, tar-like blood.

"Pay attention!" It'd be a waste for the tactician to die in such a skirmish.

"Right, right." Robin raises a hand to call some magic, but the tome only fizzles out a few fat sparks in his hands, its power all but spent. He tosses it away without a second glance, and tugs an iron sword free from one of the felled Risen. "I suppose—" Robin pants. "—now is as good a time as ever for you to give me advice?"

Lon'qu lops off a Risen's arm. The limb twitches in the dirt as the remainder of the corpse snarls at him. He thrusts his sword through its neck, twisting it so the flat of the blade is parallel to the ground, then cuts through half of the neck to free his blade. Black blood spurts from the fatal wound. These foul beings seem to rattle some of the army, but not him. An enemy is an enemy, alive or undead.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Robin take down his own foe, slashing at the creature's torso until it folds to the ground.

"You've been using tomes too often," Lon'qu observes. "You keep trying to strike from a distance. Use your body to your advantage."

To show an example, he darts to a nearby Risen and swiftly swipes its legs out from under it before running his blade through its brain. Robin is quick to adapt the physicality to his overall battle strategy, alternating between kicks and stabs. When he defeats his third enemy he flashes a grin at Lon'qu, and the smile tugs at his stomach.

"Chrom!"

"Milord!"

The moment ends as several voices around them ring out with joy. The prince has arrived, bringing with him the vestiges of the army, and, perhaps more importantly, horses and pegasi. The Shepherds who normally ride into battle hop onto their mounts and dive right back into the fray. With the added strength and speed of the steeds, as well as the second wind aroused by Prince Chrom's presence, the Shepherds are able to rout the enemy.

They've fought the Risen enough times by now to fall into their usual pattern once the battle is over. Frederick the Dutiful scours the field to make sure all the creatures are dead, and a wounded one hasn't been overlooked. Anyone injured is ushered towards Ladies Lissa and Maribelle to be healed.

"Took your time, didn't you?" Robin jests as Prince Chrom walks up to him.

"I was confident in your ability to handle the battle for a few minutes."

"Minutes!" The tactician snorts.

Prince Chrom sobers. "We should relocate the horses' area to the center of camp. That way they'll be an equal distance from wherever the enemy might attack from."

Robin nods. "We were fortunate their numbers were few enough this time." He gives Lon'qu a light clap on the shoulder. "Thanks for watching my back."

"Of course," Lon'qu says.

In celebration of their victory, proper meat is roasted over a bonfire for dinner in lieu of the usual tough jerky and rock-hard bread. The Shepherds congregate in the center of camp, clumping into smaller groups of friends for conversation. Lon'qu stands apart, eager to receive his share of the meal so he can retreat to his tent. Several people try to approach him and engage him in their conversations; a sharp glare warns them away. He spots Robin nearby, speaking with Ricken. The boy's still a bit pale, but the fact that he's up and walking already bodes well for his recovery.

"Bear?! Again? Frederick, you must be  _trying_  to kill me!" Lady Lissa whines.

"Bear meat is quite nutritious and palatable, milady." Undeterred, the knight hands her a hunk of bear meat on a stick.

The meat is at last distributed, and as a group they roast the food on the fire. Donnel is most at home with the practice, chattering on with some of the Shepherds about the most efficient ways to roast particular animals. After his own meat is cooked Lon'qu intends to slip away, but Robin makes a beeline over to him before he can escape.

"Lon'qu." He greets him, happily.

"Robin."

"It's a shame you missed Vaike trying to trap the bear earlier. It was quite the sight. The bear might've had him for dinner instead of the other way around if Miriel hadn't stepped in."

"Hn."

"Can I speak with you for a moment?"

"Is that not what you're doing right now?"

Robin huffs. "I meant privately." There's a knowing glint in his eye. "Afterwards you're free to sneak away to your tent. I won't make you come back and socialize."

The offer is too tempting for Lon'qu to pass up, and he begrudgingly trails behind Robin a little ways until the bonfire is a gentle smolder, the chatter of the other soldiers a faint hum. They stop at a copse, Robin leaning back against one of the trees.

The mirth drops away from Robin's face, then. "I haven't had the chance yet to properly thank you for the other day."

"I'm sure you'd do the same for any Shepherd." Lon'qu demurs.

"But that's the thing.  _You_ wouldn't." Astute, just as Lady Maribelle had been the other day. "I'm not quite sure what I did to earn your friendship, but I'm glad to have it."

He feels his face begin to heat. Robin picks up on his distress easily, and turns his gaze upwards so the myrmidon can regain his composure. The dark sky is lush with stars.

He lets out a sigh of contentment, and mercifully changes the topic of conversation. "Beautiful, don't you think?"

Lon'qu can't tear his eyes from Robin's face, at the way the fire's glow catches on his hair. "…Yes."

That night he dreams of sharing his bed with the tactician, Robin's pale hands gripping his shoulders tight as Lon'qu thrusts into him. Though he scrubs the stains from his clothes the following morning, he cannot scrub the thoughts from his mind. And they don't only grow; they flourish.

* * *

 

At Ylisstol the Shepherds split. Robin and the royalty peel off from the bulk of the army to head to the castle, presumably to discuss war preparations. Frederick leads everyone else to the Shepherds' home barracks, where he subsequently distributes pay and dismisses the men from duty for the remainder of the day. After receiving his sack of coins, Lon'qu slips away from the lot before he can be roped into attending anything. The days after the bonfire have been nothing but torment. He could not stop picking out Robin from the crowd of soldiers during meals, could not stop his thoughts from repeatedly returning to the sight of the tactician, grinning with him with bright eyes as they fought side by side.

He strides far from the sparkling main square, to the dark alleys which lead to far darker places. The prince and his Shepherds have made excellent work in eliminating brigands and pillagers from the capitol and its surrounding towns. But even the kind people of the capitol are not without their vices.

At last Lon'qu reaches the establishment. The woman at the front desk has a mess of red curls and a familiar face.

"You—the saleswoman in the woods!" Lon'qu turns swiftly on his heel and is about to leave when she calls out to him.

"Just a moment there, sir!" The red-haired woman gestures for him to come closer. He doesn't obey, but he stops shy of running back out the door. "I've never seen you before today—who you saw was definitely one of my sisters!"

"You mean to tell me you're not Anna?"

She rests her cheek on her palm and smiles coquettishly. "Oh, my name's Anna too, sir."

Lon'qu growls. "Don't toy with me, woman."

"I've come from a large family, good sir. And I've never seen you before today, I swear by the Gods."

"…Fine." He returns to the desk and retrieves his coin sack from the inner folds of his shirt. "What's your price?"

"Depends on what exactly it is that you want, sir."

He flushes. "One night."

Anna gets out a quill, ready to add his information to a book of clients and bookings. "Of course. One lady?"

"…No."

She arches a brow. " _Two_  ladies?"

"No, I…" He wishes he hadn't come.

To his surprise, she manages to glean the truth of the matter through his embarrassment.

"One gentleman?"

He cannot meet her unabashed, non-judgmental gaze. "Yes."

"Any further preferences?"

"White hair." He blurts, before he can stop himself.

She drums her fingers on the desk, the other hand leafing through the pages of her book. "White hair, white hair…aha! I've found your perfect match." She holds out an open palm expectantly. "That'll be thirty gold, then."

"Thirty?" He growls.

"You've come to the best establishment in all of Ylisse, good sir. I assure you he's well worth it."

Relenting, he plunks the appropriate number of coins into her waiting hand. She scribbles something in her book and then slides a key across the desk to him.

"Go all the way down the hall, last door on the left. Knock twice."

"Why knock when I have the key?"

"The doors lock from the inside, hun."

The key is small and cold in his hand as he walks to the room. This is undoubtedly a high-end establishment; though he passes by several occupied rooms, he can hear only the faintest of moans and sighs. When he reaches the door, he stands outside for a long while. He shakes his head. He's being stupid; if he was going to back out of this, he should have left before paying such an exorbitant amount. So he knocks twice, as instructed. In seconds the door opens a crack, Lon'qu seeing little but a shock of white hair atop a handsome face.

He opens the door wide enough for Lon'qu to slip inside, then shuts and locks it. That taken care of, he turns his full attention to Lon'qu. The prostitute's gaze flicks up and down his body, and he hums appreciatively. He wastes no time in striding over to him and planting a full kiss on his lips as he simultaneously paws at the myrmidon's clothes. His kiss tastes of cheap wine, and Lon'qu can't resist wondering what Robin tastes like.

The whore shucks him of his Feroxi furs and trails kisses down his now-exposed chest and stomach.

"Bed." Lon'qu says.

The man throws off his own loose garments in a few seconds; once Lon'qu has shed the remainder of his clothing and placed the key on the nightstand, he climbs into bed on top of him.

"You gonna make me feel good tonight?" He purrs. His voice is nasally and abrasive, a stark foil to Robin's gentle tone.

"Be silent." The platinum-haired whore pouts a bit, but obeys. Instead of talking, he only emits breathy moans as he cants his hips upwards to brush against Lon'qu.

As he buries himself inside this stranger, he knows there's no sense in denying the truth to himself any longer.

He has developed feelings for Robin.


	2. Chapter 2

“Lon’qu! There you are.” Prince Chrom jogs up to him as he approaches the Shepherds’ barracks the following morning.

All around them soldiers bustle about, scrambling to make final preparations before the cold march north to Ferox begins.

“I looked for you last night in the barracks, but I couldn’t find you anywhere.” His wide smile is guileless. “Out touring the capital?”

“…Yes.”

“I have a favor to ask of you. Something of the utmost importance.”

Lon’qu gestures for him to go on, but the prince only jerks his head to the side.

“Walk with me.”

He falls into step beside the lord as they make a slow loop down the street. By constantly moving, they lessen the chance of their conversation being overheard.

“There have been threats on Lissa’s life.” Prince Chrom explains lowly. “To keep our spies’ covers, I can’t appoint Frederick to guard her. It would be too obvious, too apparent that we knew they were coming.”

“So you wish for me to guard her instead.”

He nods. “You’re one of the finest fighters in the Shepherds. And when I brought the matter to Robin, he didn’t hesitate to recommend you. I can hardly think of higher praise.”

Emotions war within Lon’qu. For this assignment, he’ll have to stick quite close to the princess’ side. Though he can ignore his phobia in times of immediate, dire need, guarding a woman closely and constantly will be a drain on him mentally. But, on the other hand…perhaps he needs this. Perhaps distance and time will allow Lon’qu to overcome these feelings, this fixation, that he has developed for Robin.

“I’ll do it.” He affirms.

Prince Chrom thanks him heartily before giving him instructions on where to meet his sister. After completing his personal, minor preparations for the march, he sets out to find the girl.

She’s cavorting with a few other women, discussing something or other about Ylisstol’s latest fashion trends. When the princess spots him she separates from the group and trots over to meet him.

“Not so close,” He growls, much like he had during their first meeting. She pouts, but leaves enough room between them for the myrmidon to feel comfortable.

“I take it my brother has spoken with you?”

He gives her a short nod. “We must maintain constant vigilance for any threats, Lady Lissa.”

“Just Lissa, please. “Lady Lissa” sounds so…so…lame!” She scrunches up her nose. “Are you sure you’ll be able to guard me?” Lon’qu bristles, and she hastens to add: “I’m not doubting your fighting skills! But don’t you think that _this_ —” She motions to the wide gap of space between them. “—will interfere with your guard duty?”

“I can assure you that my…aversion to women won’t be a problem. I will protect you.”

“I still can’t believe this is happening!” She huffs. “I don’t understand why anyone would bother.”

“You’re of royal blood.” Lon’qu shrugs. The explanation seems obvious enough to him. “That’s more than enough to make you a target, especially with war on the horizon.”

“But it’s not like I’m…” She bites her lip, then swiftly changes tack. “Nevermind. I’m going to go train. I suppose you can stand in the corner and look dour.”

“Suits me fine.” Though he wonders about what she almost let slip. Does she not consider herself as important as her siblings? He mulls over the idea as he follows Lady Lissa—who picks up Sumia along the way—to the castle’s training grounds. He supposes if the royal family is viewed from the outside, one could perceive it as such. Exhalt Emmeryn is an incredible woman; even the Feroxi, great lovers of fighting, admire her peace-making accomplishments. She utilized her abilities as a figurehead to their full potential, through popularity alone pulling her nation from poverty to prosperity. Prince Chrom is admired for his attentive defense of the everyday citizens of Ylisse, driving out brigands, and now Risen, from the lands so the people can live their lives in relative peace.

Next to the two of them, the younger princess might appear lackluster to an outsider—but those who know her will argue otherwise. Lon’qu is personally ambivalent; he has no real attachment, positive or negative, to the lady. But it’s impossible to miss how she inspires the soldiers. She lifts their spirits during long, drab marches with her clever pranks. She near-singlehandedly keeps spirits high and tensions low. And a happy army is a stronger army. How could she be blind to this?

When they reach the training grounds, several Shepherds are already there, hard at work attempting to harness new techniques.

Princess Lissa winces in sympathy at the sight of Sully and Stahl enduring Frederick’s regimen. Lon’qu gives the area a cursory sweep; there’s no sign of assassins lurking in the bushes, though he will remain on high alert. With a faint twinge of disappointment in his chest, he sees that Robin is not out training. He shoves the irrational feeling aside. He shouldn’t have expected Robin to be here; the tactician is undoubtedly buried deep in war preparations with Prince Chrom.

Lissa strides over to a rack of weapons, staffs, and tomes, selecting a mending staff from the group. A squire leads Sumia’s pegasus in from the stables, and after the reins have been passed to the rider, the boy departs with a short bow.

Lady Lissa turns to Lon’qu, face flush with excitement. “Do you know what we’re trying out today?”

“No.”

“Sheesh, you could at least _pretend_ to be interested! It’s a pretty neat idea. Robin suggested it to us the other day.”

Lon’qu twitches.

“For a while now, I’ve been working on improving the strength of my magic and the distance it can travel.” She hefts the staff in her arms. “But the thing is, I haven’t really practiced casting _up_.”

“Isn’t it the same as distance on the ground?” Lon’qu isn’t that interested in the conversation. In the long run, vulneraries are more reliable than mages and monks—but if he doesn’t give a semi-thoughtful reply she’s liable to keep pestering him.

“Of course not! There’s wind resistance, gravity—a whole host of factors! That’s why wind magic is the only type that’s reliably effective against flying units. It was created to interact with the air.” She lectures.

“I didn’t realize I was speaking to Miriel.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Miriel isn’t the only one with brains around here!” In her righteous fury, she stomps closer to him. He backs away automatically.

Mercifully, Sumia breaks in. “Shall we get started then, Lissa?”

For a moment she looks as if she’d rather continue her tirade against Lon’qu, but she ultimately gives in.

“Alright, alright. Go for it.”

Sumia gracefully mounts her pegasus. Lon’qu’s never seen her so much as nudge the beast with her legs to direct it; rather, she whispers into its ear and it bursts into a gallop, spreading its massive wings wide. It jumps into the air with its powerful hind legs, and the wings begin to flap, keeping steed and rider alike aloft. Sumia circles a few times to make sure her mount is comfortable before guiding it to remain circling above Lady Lissa. Lon’qu is careful not to watch their training too closely and instead keep an eye out for anyone suspicious.

“Ready when you are!” Comes Sumia’s faint cry from above.

Princess Lissa thrusts the staff into the air, summoning a wave of healing magic.

“Anything?” She shouts.

“No, nothing.” Sumia calls down. Even when fully healed, a healing spell will fill a person with warmth as the magic washes over them. Yet another reason he prefers vulneraries—after spending so much of his life in Regna Ferox, the spell feels uncomfortably warm.

Lon’qu observes as they continue to practice. Once they reach a height difference Lady Lissa can successfully cast at, they attempt to factor movement into it. Instead of Sumia simply hovering above Lady Lissa, she begins a circuit around the training ground, only staying above the healer for a few scant seconds. It’s practical; in battle, a stationary pegasus or wyvern is soon felled by an onslaught of arrows.

When Lady Lissa wobbles a few hours later, Lon’qu detaches from the wall he was leaning against and strides over to her. Though magic requires minimal physical strength, it does wear one down mentally after a time.

“I think that’s enough practice for today, lady.”

She flashes him a sheepish grin. “Saw that, did you? And knock it off with all the “lady” business already.”

Sumia spots Lon’qu, and must assume training is over, as she brings her mount back to the earth. She approaches them, face pink and windswept.

“That was amazing, Lissa!” The pegasus rider enthuses. “You seem to be really getting the hang of it.”

The lady blushes at the praise. Sumia’s pegasus nips lightly at her shoulder.

“I think she wants a bit of brushing, don’t you sweetie?” Sumia croons. Fine white froth has collected on its flanks from the long workout. With a parting wave and a promise to meet them at the night’s banquet, she leads her pegasus back to the stables.

The princess runs a hand through her sweat-knotted locks with a frown. “I need to change. I’m all gross now.” She skips a few steps, then stops, turning back to face Lon’qu. “You better not peek!”

She giggles as Lon’qu levels her a flat glare. Part of him prays the assassins would hurry up and attack already so he could stab them and be done with this.

* * *

 

All the Shepherds are invited to the evening’s banquet, and most of them attend. Virion is absent—Lon’qu suspects he’s partaking of pleasures similar to the ones he himself had the night before—as well as Stahl, who had been eagerly anticipating spending time with his family while the army was still in the capitol. Two long tables have been set in the dining hall to accommodate their growing numbers. The myrmidon absently notes that there’s an extra place setting laid out. Did the servants miscount their guests?

He takes the seat next to Lady Lissa, and soon after Robin slides into the seat next to him. They normally wouldn’t be anywhere near each other for such an event, but his temporary position as the princess’ bodyguard leaves him no choice but to join her near the head of the table.

“How did you fare today?”

Lon’qu’s mouth drops open to respond, but before he can speak Lady Lissa jumps in.

“It took a while to get the hang of throwing magic up in the air, but once I got a handle on that it became a cinch, even when Sumia started to move around.”

Robin’s brows furrow. “You have to spot Sumia in the air to heal her, right?”

Lady Lissa falters. “Well, yes. How else will I know when she’s in range?”

The tactician shakes his head. “You wouldn’t, and that’s the problem. A rider couldn’t signal you with noise; it’d be swallowed up amidst all the fighting.” He drums his fingers on the table. “You’d need someone paired with you at all times, to watch your back.”

“I don’t want to be a burden—”

“How could helping others make you a burden?” Robin doesn’t let her start down that path. “By being able to cast magic into the air, our flying units will be in far less danger when they need aid.”

Prince Chrom stands then, full of uncharacteristic agitation. Several people glance his way in question, but when he swiftly leaves the hall, conversations steadily pick up again. Did their talk of war tactics unsettle him? The idea seems ludicrous, considering who his father was. His sisters glance at each other, but it is Robin that follows after him with a frown on his face.

The Exalt settles a dainty hand over Lady Lissa’s. “Let Robin take care of Chrom for now.”

As Lady Lissa lets herself be pulled back into the conversations around her, Lon’qu silently seethes. The prince is always pulling Robin towards him and away from anyone else. He stabs moodily at his mashed potatoes, anger only increasing when the food makes him remember the meal he and the tactician spent together, the way Robin’s cheeks flushed as he laughed.

 “Exalt Emmeryn!” All chatter dies immediately when a gasping soldier stumbles in from the foyer, one hand pressed against his wounded side. “Run! The castle is under attack!”

Lon’qu and Frederick are the first to react. The general deftly scoops the Exalt up bridal-style before sprinting further into the castle, where she would be more secure. Lon’qu uses a lot less finesse. He grabs Lady Lissa by the wrist and jerks her back the way Frederick is fleeing to. But the princess strains against him, trying to get to the injured soldier, who has since sagged to the floor.

“Let me go! I can still save him!”

“Assassins will be pouring in here in minutes.” Lon’qu says harshly. “There is no time.”

He has to tamp down on the urge to seek out Robin; the assassins are probably targeting the entire royal family, and he had left the hall to meet up with the prince.

“But—”

“Your life is more important than his.”

“No it’s _not_!” Her eyes brim with tears. “How can you even say that?”

He grasps her by the shoulders and gives her a rough shake. “If you stay here you’ll die.” She flinches at the cold look in his eyes. “I’ll carry you out of here if I must, but we are leaving _now_.”

She lets herself be lead away from the soldier, then, though her gaze stays fixed on the dying man until they turn a corner and can see him no longer. Several Shepherds have split from the main group to head to the armory, unprepared for the sudden attack. Lon’qu always carries his sword with him, so he continues on the way Frederick had gone.

By the time they catch up, Frederick is already ushering the Exhalt into the dubbed “safe” room—a small room with one point of entry and no windows.

Sure that she won’t now run back to the banquet hall, Lon’qu releases his grasp on Lady Lissa. She rubs at her wrist a little, but doesn’t voice any complaints.

“Do you want to go in with her?” Lon’qu asks her.

“No!” She answers immediately. Lon’qu’s surprised by her vehemence. “I mean…Emm’s too gentle for any of this. But I want to help. I don’t want to hide while everyone fights.”

“Well said.” She smiles weakly at his approval.

The sound of thunderous hooves has Lon’qu drawing his blade and pushing the princess behind him, but his guard relaxes slightly as he catches sight of vibrant red hair—Sully. Close behind her is Sumia, and the remainder of the Shepherds who had dashed to retrieve supplies. Lady Maribelle scurries over to Lady Lissa, passing her a mending staff and some vulneraries.

“Chrom and Robin might still be outside.” Lady Lissa voices what’s been chewing on Lon’qu’s nerves since the soldier delivered the news. “Do you think they’re…?”

Frederick stands before the assembled soldiers. With both the prince and the tactician absent, the mantle of command falls to him.

“Milord and Robin are not unarmed. They’re most likely making their way back here as we speak. In the meantime, we must prepare. Time is short.” He swiftly parcels out orders to the Shepherds—intimate knowledge of the castle allows him to instantly know which fighters to place where.

They’ve hardly reached their assigned positions when the would-be assassins burst through the door at the end of the hall and start to pour in, fanning out across the great space. Lon’qu wonders how many rank and file soldiers perished to buy the Shepherds even this small amount of time to prepare. One of their mages throws out a powerful dark spell meant to blind the advancing Shepherds; Ricken swiftly counters it with a powerful fire tome. The clashing magics result in a concussive explosion of power, and with that, the battle is on.

Though Lon’qu itches to hurl himself into the throng, he holds back on the outskirts with Lady Lissa, near where the Exhalt is being guarded by a fierce Frederick. All he can do is wait for the fight to come to him, pre-battle jitters making his hands quiver and sweat on the hilt of his blade. He and the princess can only listen to the various shouts throughout the hall, the clang of metal on metal, until they spot five of the dastards making their way up the stairs towards them. A wave of trepidation rolls through him. Lady Lissa might be adept at the healing magics, but she’s no warrior. Trying to guard her _and_ fight all five of them simultaneously is something he’s not sure he can manage. But he can’t lead them back to Frederick, sole guardian of the realm’s ruler. So he slides into a fighting stance, ready to kill as many of them as he can.

He startles badly as a large brown blur jumps in front of him before pouncing on the assassins. As it savages one man with its paw, Lon’qu finally gets a good look at it. It’s a giant—rabbit?

Between its sharp front claws and powerful hind legs, the rabbit-like beast makes quick work of the stunned and frightened brigands. One stumbles down the steps, trying to run and screaming for mercy—the beast crunches his head between its teeth. Now that they’re all dead, it turns to face them with its glowing eyes and sopping red muzzle. Lady Lissa can’t help but cower slightly behind him.

“Halt! Panne is an ally!” An unfamiliar voice rings out.

Running up to meet them are Prince Chrom, Robin, and the woman who had beaten him in a match months before. It seems she’s forsaken the mask, letting her long blue hair whip around freely in the wind.

 “Marth? You’re a—”

“There will be time to talk later.” Marth interrupts. “Is the Exalt safe?”

“Y-Yes.” Says Lady Lissa. She looks to her brother. “Frederick’s guarding the room now, but I think he’s the only one!”

“Let’s go.” Prince Chrom leads Marth away. “Robin, I’m leaving the rest to you!”

 “As always,” Robin grumbles, but there’s no ire in it.

 “Are you alright?” Lon’qu can’t help asking.  Though there don’t seem to be any wounds readily apparent, it is hard to tell for sure given his bulky black coat.

“I am,” He says, and Lon’qu cannot pick up any indication that he’s lying. “Marth saved Chrom’s life, and possibly mine as well. But there’s more to be done.” He glances towards Panne, then back at them.

“Will you two be alright here for now? I’ll try to send help your way.”

“And what are you doing?” Lon’qu watches him warily as he approaches the beast. She’s been quiet and still for the moment, seemingly awaiting further instruction. She makes a faint rumbling sound as Robin stands before her, craning his neck to look her in the eyes.

“I know not if this is considered offensive to your kind, but I need your help and your speed. Will you—will you let me ride you?”

Lady Lissa gasps. “Robin, you’re mad!”

“She’s the best way for me to get a sense of the battle,” Robin shoots back, before returning his attention to Panne. “What say you?”

Panne deliberates for a moment, and Lon’qu’s heart feels as if it’s going to thud out of chest with the intensity of its throbs. He’s—he’s _scared_ for Robin. He’s allowed himself to become attached to someone again, in a way he hasn’t since—since _her_. The giant rabbit eventually hunches to the ground, a signal of acceptance of Robin’s request. He clambers atop her as carefully as he can. Still, the tension inside the myrmidon remains taut. He can’t lose Robin.

“Robin.” He’s not aware he’s said the man’s name aloud until the tactician twists back to look at him. Suddenly sheepish, he looks away. “Don’t be careless.”

 “Careful could be my middle name, for all I know.” And then he’s off, Panne bounding across the hall, away from them.

“Lon’qu.” The lady starts, after a beat of silence.

He glances at her, waiting for her to continue.

“I know Chrom and Robin want us to hang back, but…” She clenches the mending staff tightly. “Hiding back here is no better than hiding out in a locked room! I’m sure someone could use our help out there.”

“Lady Maribelle is a capable healer—”

“And what if _she_ gets hurt? Who will help her?” Lady Lissa challenges.

“There are vulneraries for—”

“They can’t heal fatal wounds like magic can. Look.” She glowers at him. “I’m going. You can come along and protect me if you want, but I _am_ going.”

He can stop her. He knows seven holds that will force her into unconsciousness with minimal harm. He could haul her back to the Exhalt’s room, and guard it from the front as Prince Chrom and Frederick are undoubtedly doing. But though he knows he can do this, and _should_ do it, he instead follows after her as she edges closer to the main fray. Because Gods damn it all, the need to protect Robin from the enemy’s weapons and man’s own risk-taking measures is too much.

They creep close to the center of the hall, using a pillar for cover as they take in the scene. Ricken sits behind Sully on her horse, pressed back to back so he can fire off spells at enemies behind as the knight cuts down those in front. Sumia circles the area on her pegasus, flying high then dashing down fast to pick off a foe, then swooping back up before an archer or mage can touch her. Robin fights on the ground, the hulking figure of Panne sticking close by.

“Sully’s hurt!” Lady Lissa gasps, just as Lon’qu sees the redhead press a hand to her side with a grimace. “Let’s go!” She’s off like a shot.

 “Careful!” His warning is ignored, and with a growl he catches up to her. Several of the rogues turn their way once they spot the princess.

One of the brutes raises an axe to bring down on Lon’qu’s head; he lops the man’s arm off before he can complete the motion. The man howls, sinking to his knees and clutching at the shortened limb. Lon’qu mercifully finishes him, and he’s hardly withdrawn his sword from the corpse when the next brigand is upon him. A swordsman, this time, but not one too skilled; after a few parries Lon’qu manages to create an opening and run him through. He pushes the man off his blade to the floor. A thrill of fear runs through him as he spots a third foe, arrow stretched taut on a bow. At this distance he won’t be able to—

The man lets the arrow fly. It breezes by Lon’qu. He whips around, but Lady Lissa is fine, too: behind her is a brigand, an arrow through his neck, choking on his own blood.

The orange-haired man lowers the bow.

“Can’t believe I made that shot. Beginner’s luck, eh?”

The myrmidon places his blade to the man’s neck before he can nock a second arrow.

“Who are you?” He growls.

The man grins, but Lon’qu can see the nervousness dancing in his eyes. “Easy there, Cuddles. I’m on your side.”

“Sully!” Lady Lissa brushes past the two of them as the knight gets in range of her magic. With a wave of her staff, Sully’s wound knits together—already, the knight looks worlds better.

“Thanks!” Sully hollers, before wheeling around to run yet another brigand through.

Gradually, but surely, the Shepherds turn the tide of the battle, picking off brigands until the Shepherds are the majority, and then make quick work of the remainder.

“Sully, Sumia, please do a sweep.” Says Robin, once the last assassin has fallen. “Make sure the others are alright.”

After taking a short moment to gather their breath, Sumia flies left and Sully trots right, disappearing down the corridors.

The remaining Shepherds cluster around Robin, awaiting their own orders. He’s caked in blood—many of them are—but it seems none of it is his own.

“Now Panne, I want you to—”

He breaks off when slow clapping resounds throughout the hall. The Shepherds watch with trepidation as a slender man steps into the main hall, dark clothes over dark skin.

“Of all the places for you to show up, I did not expect to find you here. And a tactician!” His steps echo as he approaches the group. Lon’qu looks at Robin; he’s bemused by this stranger who seems to know him. The man makes hairs stand up straight on the back of his neck. He seems imbibed with darkness and wrongness. Panne must feel it too, as she lets out a low stream of growls.

“I don’t know you.” Says Robin, but to Lon’qu’s ears he sounds uncertain.

“You know me in your very marrow, boy.” He offers out his hand. “Come with me willingly and I shall spare this rabble for today.” He’s come close enough that Lon’qu can spot the violet-bound tome in his hand, emblazoned with the golden mark of Grima. Just like the markings on Robin’s coat…

“We’ll take our chances.” Robin raises his elfire tome in preparation. The others all tense in anticipation as well.

With a burst of speed, Panne charges at him, hoping to take him out quickly. But the dark mage is faster still—he summons a ball of black magic and hurls it at the hare. The force of the magic sends her skidding back across the floor, coming to a halt just before the Shepherds. She keens loudly, her hind left leg hanging in a sickeningly wrong way.

“Shepherds, attack!” Robin roars, charging towards their newest foe. Other Shepherds surge forward, but Lon’qu stays back; he’s sworn an oath to protect Lady Lissa, and that must come first.

“Can you heal her?” He asks, as Panne continues to whine pitifully.

“I-I can try.”

The princess raises her staff next to the injured limb. She works furiously, sweat gathering on her face; no doubt Panne’s size compared to a normal-sized human alters the magic power necessary to heal her. Lon’qu nervously watches the fight. Robin and the dark sorcerer are engaged in an impressive duel of magic, consistently cancelling each other’s spells out. But the stranger is not only fighting Robin, but simultaneously keeping the remainder of the Shepherds at bay as well, forcing them to duck and dive around a flurry of spells. The orange-haired man gets a lucky hit in, managing to nick the sorcerer’s shoulder. Seizing the moment of distraction, Robin summons a simmering inferno and blasts it at the man.

His triumphant smile slips as the smoke clears. The man’s not even singed.

“ _Enough_!” Bellows the dark sorcerer, and with a wave of his hand the Shepherds are all thrown back. None get up, all dazed. Black tendrils of magic linger on Robin especially before dissipating. As the stranger makes to approach him, Lon’qu steps between them.

“You aren’t taking him anywhere.”

“As if you could pose a challenge to me, Feroxi whelp.”

When Lon’qu remains resolute, the sorcerer’s lips curl into a sneer.

“Have it your way, then!” Sparks of dark magic dart toward Lon’qu, which he dodges skillfully. He _hates_ mages. Magic isn’t something tangible, something he can block or overcome. All he can do is try to avoid the spells long enough to get in close.

But the sorcerer is no fool. Whenever Lon’qu is in danger of getting close enough to stab him, he swiftly widens the gap between them, continually throwing out spells as he does so. This will be a test of endurance.

Lon’qu gets a split second of warning as glowing symbols encircle him before his body erupts in pain. He hacks, spitting up a ball of blood. He feels as if his organs are rattling around within him, about to burst. This is no ordinary tome. He had hoped to dodge the spells until the tome’s power faded, then move in for the kill. But there’s no way magic this powerful would have a low durability.

“Lon’qu!” Lissa screams shrilly. She starts towards him.

“Stay back!” He bellows, and the malicious sorcerer takes advantage of the myrmidon’s distraction to hit him with the spell once more.

He’s unable to tamp down on his cry of agony, and can’t help sinking to his knees from the sheer magnitude of the pain. The smirking sorcerer looms over him.

“Pathetic.” He spits.

But then Lon’qu surges up with a speed surprising even himself, impaling him with his sword, burying the blade to its hilt in his fury. He leaves it in and lets the man crumple to the ground.

“How…” The sorcerer chokes out. Life fades from his eyes. “This is all wrong…all wrong…”

Once he’s sure the man’s dead, Lon’qu crouches by Robin’s side. The other Shepherds that had been knocked down have begun to stir, but the tactician hasn’t so much as twitched.

“Robin.” He shakes him roughly when he doesn’t stir. “Lissa!”

“Here, I’m here!” She kneels down next to him and methodically checks his vitals, lifts up his eyelids to see the whites underneath.

“He’ll be alright.” She says eventually, and there’s a collective sigh of relief from the group. “I think that guy put a sleeping spell on him so he could abduct him without a fight.” She brushes a hand across his pale hair. “But why did he want to take him?”

“It’s moot now.” Lady Lissa is right beside him, but the usual anxiety is smothered by the relief he feels. Robin is safe. Robin is here.

“Oh Naga, here, Lon’qu.” He feels a warm wash of magic as Lissa’s spell expunges the darkness from his body. The pain ebbs to little more than a dull ache.

“Thank you, Lady Lissa.”

“Lon’qu.” Her voice is filled with fond exasperation. “I think you’ve more than earned the right to call me Lissa.”

“Very well…Lissa.”

She grins at him. Without meaning to, it seems Lon’qu has made another friend.

* * *

“Help me lay this out, would you?”

Robin passes him a fold of cloth. Lon’qu takes it obligingly and shakes it out before lowering it to the ground. When the wind threatens to blow it away, Robin sets the basket on it to pin it down.

Robin sits so he has the best view available; a forest of cherry blossom trees, branches waving up and down in the gentle breeze. Lon’qu sits so he has the best view of his companion.

Robin tilts his head back, closing his eyes. A soft smile forms on his lips.

“I feel like I could just sit here forever, don’t you?”

“Yes.” It’s perfection. Alone in a beautiful world with the one he loves.

Lon’qu takes Robin’s hand in his, and is ecstatic when the other man only further entwines their hands. Feeling emboldened, he leans against Robin, inhaling the scent of his hair. He feels Robin’s laugh shudder through him.

“That tickles.”

There comes a faint rustling. Lon’qu disentangles himself from Robin, standing, on high alert.

“Settle down.” Robin tugs at his pant leg, wanting Lon’qu to return and join him. “Like a skittish deer, you are.

“Something isn’t right.” Lon’qu insists, and his instincts are vindicated as the crunching noise sounds again, in soft pairs: footsteps.

Pulling out the blunt knife he’d stolen from the local butcher, he yanks Robin up and presses him to the tree behind him.

“Lon’qu.” Her voice is like ice, thickening the blood in his veins to a halt.

From the thicket emerge a throng of brigands, forsaking further subtlety. Their leader, a raven-haired young woman. She would be lovely if not for the stab wounds that paint her kimono red, the caved-in half of her forehead from several kicks, and the bulging eye that threatens to pop from its socket.

“Ke’ri.” He is plaintive, begging.

She stalks towards him.

“You’ve betrayed me.”

“No.”

“You’ve replaced me!”

“ _No_!”

The brigands surge ahead of their leader, and Lon’qu races to meet them. The first blade his meets defeats him. The small knife breaks under the pressure of a true sword. The brigand seizes Lon’qu and pins him to the ground.

“No!” He thrashes violently. “No!”

Robin draws a killing edge, and a fells a few brigands before he is overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

Lon’qu knows what will happen now. He turns his face into the dirt, but slender hands grasp his cheeks. Ke’ri turns his head so he’s facing the scene.

“You can’t escape.”

He’s forced to watch as the brigands savagely beat Robin, break him down from someone proud to a pitiful, mewling thing. One of the heavier men sets his boot on Robin’s face and starts to press _down_.

Robin’s cries of agony as his face is slowly crushed intermingle with Lon’qu’s own wails of despair.

“This is what you deserve.”

“ _Lon’qu_!”

He jerks awake, drawing his sword on whoever roused him from his slumber.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Lissa exclaims. “You’re supposed to be protecting me from swords, not shoving them in my face!”

He lowers his blade at once, pushing a hand through his hair, willing the faint tremors to subside. He feels sweaty and sick. For years, ever since he had lost Ke’ri, his nights were plagued with replays of that haunting moment. Then he met Robin, and for a few months his nightmares had eased. Now it seems they’ve returned, with a sickening twist.

“Sorry.”

“Never mind that, are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”

“But—”

“Why are you in here?”

“I—you—” She huffs in irritation. “We’re heading out in a few minutes.”

“Minutes? Why wasn’t I awoken earlier?”

“Because you needed rest, you big blockhead!” She pokes him in the chest, ignoring his violent flinch. “I purged that dark magic from your system, yeah, but that doesn’t mean you recover automatically.” Her tone softens. “I’m really glad you’re alright.”

It’s too early in the morning for emotions. Lon’qu stands, sheathing his blade. “By your presence here, I’m to understand my bodyguard detail is not yet finished?”

Lissa nods. “Chrom thinks last night’s assassins were a different group than the one that’s after me.”

The myrmidon hums lowly in agreement. He’d suspected as much.

“So it looks like we’re stuck with each other for a little while longer.” She waggles her eyebrows at him suggestively. He steadfastly ignores her.

* * *

Their march is an unpleasant one, as rain crashes down upon them in steady sheets. Before marching to Ferox, they’re making an eastern detour to a secondary Ylissean palace. A few feet ahead Exalt Emmeryn is lead forward on Frederick’s steed, the general leading the animal by the reins. The hierarch trots beside them. Circling above are Phila and her squadron of pegasus knights, functioning as the Exalt’s official escort.

Not far behind are Prince Chrom and Robin. Lon’qu had been concerned for the tactician’s welfare after the battle, but Robin greeted him cheerfully enough at the start of the march. It had only been a sleeping spell, Robin assured him. No harm involved. The thought still unsettled Lon’qu. Who _was_ that man? Why did he seem to know Robin? Before, he would have grown even more suspicious of Robin and his potential to turn traitor to Ylisse. But now, the idea that there’s some insidious connection between Robin and the Grimleal just makes him worry, for Robin’s sake.

When the tactician’s laughter rings out at something the prince says, Lon’qu glances over at Lissa. The rain has flattened her sprightly pigtails to the sides of her face. She brings a hand up to idly scratch at her cheek, and that’s when Lon’qu first spots the bandages wrapped around it.

“What happened to your hand?” He doesn’t recall her getting injured last night. He’d done his job properly.

“Oh, this?” She holds her hand out splayed before her, nose wrinkling in distaste. “The greatest foe of any princess. Needlework.”

“…Needlework?”

“I was minding my own business, trying to practice my sewing when that—that Gaius—!”

“Gaius?” Lon’qu interrupts.

“We met him yesterday—the orange-haired guy. Anyway, so there I was, minding my own business…”

Lissa regales him with an exceptionally long and undoubtedly exaggerated tale of her “altercation” with Gaius, a thief whose sewing skills made her look as royal as Donnel. Out of a vague sense of respect, he doesn’t tune her out.

“And then he saw that I’d stabbed myself with the needle a couple times and insisted on bandaging it.” She finishes. When she stares at him expectantly, he grunts.

“Thinks he’s better than me, does he? Well, I’ll just make him give me some sewing lessons. That’ll make him regret acting all superior!” She laughs evilly, in an exaggerated fashion.

Mercifully, the rain seems to be finally letting up. Several of the Shepherds murmur in appreciation of the sudden rainbow on the horizon, radiant and beautiful. Lissa is one of them, gasping with delight.

“Lon’qu, look!” She makes to clutch onto his arm, but he stops her with a crisp:

“I can see it just fine from here.”

She sulks, and Lon’qu swears he can see the cogs turning in her head.

“We’ve been over this.” He continues. “If need be, I can close the distance in the blink of an eye.”

“Can you?” Teal eyes flash. “Let me see if I can—” She starts towards him.

“No.” He growls out.

“Stop it.” He growls. “Stop making up excuses to get closer.”

She snickers. “You’re pretty sharp. But I’m just trying to be friendly, here. How are we supposed to become best buds if you’re way over there?”

“I’m close enough to protect you.” He promises. “And we are not “supposed” to be “best buds”, nor are we going to.”

“Oh, we’ll be best buds yet, you just wait.” Lon’qu shudders slightly at her vow. With her drive, it might even be possible, never mind his own opinion on the matter.

* * *

“Lon’qu? Are you still awake?”

The myrmidon had been dismissed from Lissa guarding duty for the evening to get some rest—Frederick would keep an eye on her in his stead. There is nothing suspicious about the general guarding the royal at night.

Lon’qu has stripped down to his smallclothes when Robin bursts into his tent.

“Oh Gods, sorry, sorry!” Robin hastily retreats back outside, and Lon’qu scrambles to replace his furs.

Once he’s presentable, he sits on his cot and calls Robin back in. Lon’qu hasn’t had a moment alone with the man since the bear barbeque, and he hates the thrill of excitement that runs through him at the thought of finally spending more time with him. As Robin enters again, Lon’qu’s gaze is drawn to the brown latched box he carries in his hands.

“I’m glad I caught you before you fell asleep.” He sits beside Lon’qu, not touching on the embarrassing moment they just shared. The cot creaks dangerously at their combined weight, but holds. “I think this will help.”

He holds out the box. Lon’qu accepts it, and opens the lid apprehensively. Inside are a few gnarled roots.

“What…?” He picks one up, holding it between his thumb and pointer finger. Robin plucks it from his grasp.

“You have a kettle and water in here, yes?”

Lon’qu nods. Although in Regna Ferox the fighters preferred liquor to warm their bones, he never neglected the act of tea drinking he picked up in Chon’sin. So Robin has gotten him tea ingredients, then.

Robin draws a weak fire tome out of an inner coat pocket. Wordlessly, Lon’qu locates the tea kettle. After filling it with water from a spare canteen, he hands it to Robin. He lets the root plunk inside, then shuts the lid. The fire tome lies open on his lap. He holds the small kettle with one hand as the other heats the bottom of it.

“Lissa told me.”

“Told you what?”

Robin’s dark eyes hold his own.

“You’ve been having nightmares.” Irritation flares in Lon’qu’s chest. She has no right to gossip about him. His anger must show on his face, for Robin is quick to add: “She swears she’s told only me. She wanted to help.”

The kettle whines softly. Robin cuts off the flame, and pours Lon’qu a cup of the tea before setting the kettle on the ground. Their fingers brush as Robin hands him the cup. A small trail of steam wafts up from the cup—an earthy smell.

“I read about this herb in a text a few weeks back. It should put you to sleep swiftly, with no dreams.”

Lon’qu eyes the tea dubiously. “How deep under will this put me?”

“You’ll wake up if there’s any sort of loud noise.” Robin assures him. “You won’t sleep through a Risen attack or the call to move out.”

“…Why are you doing this for me?”

Robin’s hand clasps his wrist. His heart throbs at the simple gesture. Foolish, womanish, but also impossible for him to subvert.

“We’re friends. You know that. You helped me when I was…having doubts. Now it’s my turn.”

_Friends_. Lon’qu swallows hard. Robin’s hand slides off his as he stands.

“I’ll let you get some rest.” He leaves Lon’qu alone once more.

After a moment, the myrmidon takes a gulp of the tea. The taste isn’t too pleasant, but it goes down easy enough. The stuff is potent; he’s barely finished half the cup when he feels thick and heavy with the need to sleep. He polishes off the rest of the cup and sinks into the cot, still fully dressed. Robin’s promise rings true, and he dreams of nothing that night.

* * *

The general mood of the Shepherds is grim as they make camp near the northern border of Plegia. Though their ranks are now swollen with fresh Feroxi troops, the news that Ylisstol and the Exhalt have been seized has dampened any potential joy. This will be their most dangerous mission so far, rushing headlong into enemy territory to prevent Exalt Emmeryn’s public execution.

Many of the Shepherds mill about the center of camp, finding some sort of comfort in remaining together. Lissa is one of those people, and so, by extension, is Lon’qu. Robin is nowhere to be found, undoubtedly holed up with Prince Chrom, Frederick, and the Khans in the strategy tent.

Lon’qu’s plan to use his bodyguard mission to gain emotional distance from Robin seems to have failed. He’s concerned for Lissa’s welfare, as he should be. But no feelings of attraction have stirred within him. He had thought continuous close proximity with a woman would at least rile him for a purely physical reason, but with Lissa he only oscillates between faint fondness and mild irritation.

Lissa stands with a small huff, brushing dirt from her dress.

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Is that wise?”

She bristles. “Call it whatever you want. But I’m going.”

She stomps off, and Lon’qu quickly follows after. The land beneath their feet has started to change lately, soil growing sandy and trees become harder and harder to come by. Walking has become more laborious as a result, but Lissa moves quickly in her anger, and soon they’ve left the camp far behind them.

Rumors had swept through the ranks about an explosive argument between Lissa and her older brother. The lord wanted her to remain behind in Regna Ferox; there was little sense in putting _all_ of Ylisse’s royalty at risk. Lissa had vehemently opposed the idea—Emmeryn was her sister as well. Chrom had no right to deny her the chance to help. When the prince threatened to pull rank, Robin at last stepped in on Lissa’s behalf. Though Chrom relented under their combined efforts, as far as Lon’qu knows, tension is still thick between the siblings. They’ve not spoken to each other in private, and whenever they do speak in public their words are curt and cold.

But their walk has seemed to cool Lissa’s temper for the moment. She glances over at Lon’qu, lips quirked in a mischievous grin.

“You know, Lon’qu.” She hedges, voice high with false innocence. “The path is kinda bumpy here. I could trip and bash my pretty little head. Should we hold hands?”

“No.” He’s only half-listening to her. Something about the area is making his hackles rise. A little further in the distance is a jagged outcropping of slate.

“Honestly, you’ve been guarding me for weeks. You should be used to me by now. And always Mr. Serious! It wouldn’t kill you to smile once in a—”

“Hush!” The wall of stone before them, the tree on the sides that are just large enough for cover. Now he knows where this uneasy feeling is coming from: they’re about to face an ambush. He strains his hearing, searching for a telltale snapping twig or clattering pebble to pinpoint a location.

“That is _so_ rude. I’m just trying to—”

An archer appears atop the outcropping. With little thought Lon’qu’s hand snaps out and grabs Lissa’s, tugging her behind him.

Lissa’s words of complaint warp into a scream as an arrow embeds itself in Lon’qu’s shoulder.

“I think we’ve found your assassins.” He says darkly. He draws his killing edge, wincing as the movement brings a burst of pain to his shoulder.

“Oh, Gods. I didn’t bring my staff—I didn’t—I didn’t think—”

“Rip it out.”

“ _What_?”

“Now. Hurry.” Any second, the assassins will emerge from their hiding places, and the fight will be on. To her credit, she only hesitates for a moment before grasping the arrow. She snaps the arrowhead off, the resulting jostling to his shoulder making him grit his teeth with the pain. The princess reaches around his front, pulling the rest of the arrow out. Just in time, too: six men burst out into the open, ready to overwhelm them with numbers. The first to reach him is overly hasty; Lon’qu parries his axe easily before cutting him down. By then the second and third reach him, both swordsmen. And he can’t forget the archer, too, hiding up above. As soon as the assassin gets a clear shot of Lissa, he’ll go for it. Lon’qu can’t let him.

“What should I do?” Lissa is frantic. “Run? Stay? Tell me!”

“We’re too far out for help.” Lon’qu grunts. Blood pours from his shoulder at an even rate, and it’ll mean trouble if he doesn’t finish this quickly. “Pick up a weapon—and fight.”

She snatches up the axe from the fallen assassin. Lon’qu locks swords with one of the men, but it is a battle he is steadily losing.

“I—I don’t know if I can—”

“ _Lissa_!” His voice is tight with panic and pain.

With a yell, she swipes at one of the assassins, but misses. However, it’s enough of a distraction that Lon’qu is able to overcome the pair of them. The remaining assassins step a few paces back, bravado fading, now wary. Lon’qu closes the gap between them in a blink, and their lives are shortly snuffed out. Above them, the archer remains paralyzed by shock at how quickly their attempt had been trounced. Lon’qu gestures towards him with his sword.

“Throw your axe!”

“What—”

“ _Throw it_!”

She hurls it up with a strength surprising to them both. The archer finally gained the sense to flee, but was too late; the axe catches him in the back, and he collapses with one last cry of pain.

Lon’qu slowly relaxes. Aside from their coupled harsh breaths, and the occasional birdsong, there is no other noise.

“That’s the last of them.” He says with finality.

Lissa sags to the ground behind him.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” She says thickly. Lon’qu crouches by her side, and rubs soothing circles into her back as she heaves.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m not…injured, if that’s what you mean.” She dashes a hand across her mouth, wiping off the sick. “But you are. Let me tend to your wound.” She produces two vulneraries and hands them over to him. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of this earlier.”

He takes the first of them with his good hand and starts to sip it. Almost instantly he feels energy and strength return to him, his wound slowly starting to knit back together again. Although the medicine can’t replenish the blood he lost, sealing the wound will help immensely.

“Lissa. Are you alright?” He repeats, because although she’s fine physically, her face is worryingly pale. It’s not as if she hasn’t been involved in skirmishes before—she’s familiar with the feeling of mortal danger.

“…No. I’ve never…killed, before.”

“It’ll get easier.” Lon’qu can promise this from experience. The first men he killed were some of the brigands who attacked him and Ke’ri. The sensation of robbing someone of their life took him time to overcome, even considering how vile the men were. But by the time he arrived in Regna Ferox, he’d killed so many that death delivered by his hand ceased to stir anything in him.

He finishes off the vulnerary with a swallow, and she hands him the next one.

“That’s the thing. I’m scared because it felt good.” Her eyes grow wet with tears. “I killed the dastard that hurt you, that tried to kill us both. And I felt glad for it.” Her hands fist in her dress. “My father…I didn’t know him, but I do know the stories. Emm is so kind, and Chrom, so noble...” She chuckles mirthlessly. “They’ve soaked up all the traits of Mother, leaving all the cruelty of Father to me.”

“It’s as if you don’t see yourself.”

She lifts her head. “What?”

“Do you truly not see how your presence energizes the others? How your smile and demeanor put everyone at ease?” She blushes. “These hardly seem like the traits of a warmongering savage.”

She wipes away her tears, rallying. “I guess I was being dumb for a moment there, huh?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“You…” She punches him lightly in his good shoulder. “Let’s head back.”

They stand. Lon’qu barely wavers, feeling worlds better than before she’d given him the vulneraries.

“I’ll escort you to your tent, just to be certain.”

They walk briskly back to camp, neither of them willing to linger there any longer.

She giggles, breaking their silence. “Chrom is going to have a fit.”

Lon’qu smiles softly. “I imagine so.”

“Was that a smile? That was a smile, wasn’t it?!”

“You must be mistaken.”

“Lon’qu!”


	3. Chapter 3

“There you are, bud. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“…No.”

Lissa has somehow tracked down Lon’qu where he was sitting a short distance from the main camp, polishing a silver sword. Sweat rolls down his face incessantly, but he’s too stubborn to remove anything more than his outer lining of furs. He hates the sensation of exposed skin.

“Come on,” She cajoles. “It’s just one teeny, tiny, minuscule question.”

“No.”

He hefts the sword in his hand, feeling its balance, its weight. It’s heavier than the killing edge he’d been using; he’ll have to compensate to maintain the same speed, but the strength of the blade will be made that much deadlier. The prince had procured more powerful weapons for all the Shepherds a fortnight ago—defeating Gangrel and his horde of Plegians will be no small feat.

“You can ask me one in return.”

“Not interested.”

“You _know_ I’ll just keep bugging you until you say yes, right?”

“…Very well.” He lets the sword rest across his lap, and prepares mentally for her asinine question.

“Do you like anyone?”

He jerks with surprise, and nearly drops the sword into the sand. She giggles at his reaction.

“That’s a yes, then. Oh, I’m so happy for you! Who is it? What’s her name?”

“You already asked your one question.” He’s starting to feel agitated, but Lissa is clever; if he tries to return to camp now, she still won’t be embarrassed by the heavily personal conversation. She’ll chatter on and on until all the Shepherds know about it.

“Well, if you won’t tell me outright, I’ll just start going through them all.” She holds up her hand, and starts ticking them off. “There’s Sumia, Miriel, Panne, oh, what about Marth? Didn’t she beat you in a duel? Is it one of those love-hate relationships? Or how about Cordelia—?”

“Stop it.” He snarls. “There’s no sense in this. They—she’ll never return my feelings. Forget the whole thing, as I am trying to do.”

He stands, ready to leave. She steps in front of him, making him draw back.

 “Lon’qu.” She’s serious now. “You should tell her now, while you can. There might not be another chance.”

Enough. He stalks back to camp before he says something irreparable. His black mood is apparent, and all shy away at his approach.

“Lon’qu, wait up.” All, it seems, save for one. As Robin hastens over to him, Lon’qu can’t resist checking him over. If he’s trying to mask his stress, he’s doing a rather poor job of it. His hair is more rumpled than usual, and dark circles ring the undersides of his eyes.

“Join me for lunch?” Lon’qu agrees to the tactician’s request without a second thought, Lissa’s words of warning pounding in his ears. To Lon’qu’s surprise—and, admittedly, delight—Robin leads him not to the mess tent, but his own personal one. To his further astonishment, Robin has already prepared and laid out a meal for two. The setup is tastefully arranged, the pleasant smells of tea and pie intermingling in the enclosed space. They sit on the floor across from one another, and their positioning tugs at his Chon’sin nostalgia.

“What if I’d already eaten?” He picks up his fork and starts to dig in. He has to keep himself from snorting: Robin made them _shepherd’s_ pie. And from the glimmer in his comrade’s eye, it was undoubtedly intentional.

“I knew you’d say yes.”

Lon’qu shovels more pie in his mouth so he doesn’t have to respond to that. After he’s washed down the food with some tea, he speaks:

“How are you holding up?”

 Robin tenses, ever so slightly. “I’m managing.”

“You can…talk, with me. I will listen.”

“No, I mean it. I actually—I feel—is it strange for me to not feel the need to rip out any of my hair right now?”

“You mean to say you’re not worried at all?” Now _that_ would be a cause for concern.

“It not that at all—I’ve been awake for…” He ticks the time off on his fingers. “Three days, now? Going over strategy.”

“ _Robin_.” His appetite has vanished with his alarm, but before he can move to corral the tactician into bed, the man springs up himself, rummaging around the messy tent until he finds what he’s looking for.

“Here, look.” Robin pushes their food from the center of the floor, smoothing out a map in its place. Lon’qu scans it. He assumes what it is, but won’t know for sure until Robin confirms. “The schematics for Plegia Castle. Chrom’s father had this sketched by an inside man. Gangrel believes we’re still operating on outdated information. And thanks to the dust cover, he can only guess at our numbers and the build of our army.” He smoothens down an errant side of the map that has begun to curl. “And when you also take into account the army’s morale at the moment, victory doesn’t seem so impossible. Everyone is burning with the desire to save the Exalt—and what’s more, they trust in their ability to do so.”

“They trust in your ability to lead them.”

That pauses Robin’s excited ramble. “That’s…that’s more Chrom than me.”

“Lord Chrom is an excellent warrior, but no one’s tactics rival yours.”

“ _Lon’qu_.” He is bashful, yet pleased with the praise.

“Robin, I…there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yes?” Robin breathes. There’s hope in the word—or is that merely Lon’qu’s wishful thinking?

He needs to tell him. They march on Plegia Castle tomorrow morn. Despite Robin’s optimism, the tide of a battle can turn in an instant. This is the moment.

And yet…his throat closes around the confession. He remembers the twisted nightmare, Robin’s head crushed in by a brigand’s boot just as Ke’ri’s had been. Even if Robin happens to prefer men, and even if Lon’qu had somehow managed to catch his attention, he couldn’t put the man at risk like that. Being too close to him brings nothing but ill luck and misfortune.

So he turns away from Robin’s expectant gaze, fumbles out an excuse to leave, and all but flees the tent.

* * *

The following morning, the Shepherds are issued their final orders for the battle. Most of them are paired up, for safety and for better speed across the sandy terrain. In smaller skirmishes, Robin tended to allow the Shepherds to pick their partners. But there is no such graciousness today. Sully and Stahl make a great team, but for today they’ve been split up. Tactically, it’s better for each of them to pair up with a unit that’d be much slower on foot. If they leave half their army in the dust behind them, the enemy would worm between the two halves and easily overcome them.

But even despite knowing this, Lon’qu is still bemused to be paired with Cordelia. He is a land fighter; though a pegasus rider might swoop down to kill, lingering too long on the ground could very well spell injury or death. Usually, if pegasus riders were to be accompanied for an entire battle, an archer or a mage with wind magic would be paired with them, to help fight foes in the skies.

When the order is issued, Cordelia’s gaze briefly flicks his way, but she makes no comment.

“Am I to remain with Cordelia, or might she drop me once we reach the Plegians?” Lon’qu wants to be by Robin’s side on such a dangerous day.

“Do whatever you deem wisest.” The dismissal is clear in Robin’s curt tone.

“…Very well.” He catches up to Cordelia, who is already halfway to her steed. Why is Robin treating him with such indifference? Sure, he’d been a bit rude yesterday, leaving as abruptly as he had. But there is no way Robin had enough clues to piece together what Lon’qu had almost said. He can’t despise him for what he does not know. So what could have spawned such an attitude?

He hoists himself onto the pegasus, behind Cordelia, making sure his silver sword is securely attached to his belt.

He shoves the thoughts of Robin to the side as he’s presented with a new, more immediate dilemma: how to remain on the pegasus while touching as little of the woman in front of him as possible.

“Arms around my waist.” Commands Cordelia. She’s either ignorant of his phobia or ignoring it. Both are equally possible. “And do _not_ let go until I give the okay.”

After a moment’s pause, he encircles her around the torso. It helps that all he can feel is her metal armor, warmed by the desert sun. But the feminine scent of her long red hair makes him flinch.

“I’m taking off.” She warns. Where Sumia uses voiced directions to guide her steed, Cordelia maneuvers her pegasus with a light tap on the animal’s sides.

His stomach lurches as the pegasus momentarily goes vertical as it takes off from the ground. Within the space of a minute Cordelia has steadied her mount, the remainder of the army black pins on the yellow expanse of the desert. The whipping wind stings his eyes, and he scrubs at the resultant tears. He hasn’t been in the air too often, and he can’t say he’s fond of it.

“Airborn cavalry inbound.” Cordelia lifts her lance in one hand, bunching the reins in the other. Lon’qu peers around her, spotting the wyvern riders closing in fast on their position.

“What can I do?” Lon’qu shouts to be heard, even though he’s right behind her.

“Just watch my back and don’t fall off.”

One of the Plegians charges straight at Cordelia, aiming to spook her mount. But her pegasus matches the wyvern’s roar with an equally fierce whinny as Cordelia’s lance parries the wyvern rider’s.

The wyvern rider raises his arm to hurl his weapon, but swift as a blink Cordelia surges towards him. The tip of her lance stabs his armpit. The standard leather armor the riders wear only covers the tops of their shoulders, so the strike bites deep and fatal. Cordelia isn’t called a genius for nothing.

The soldier pitches off his mount with a yowl, plummeting into the battlefield below. The wyvern keens lowly, turning tail and heading back to the castle. Normally, the enemy airborn rider subdues or kills the enemy’s mounts, but Cordelia has no time, as she’s currently fending off two other Plegians. One wyvern rider locks his lance with Cordelia’s—the other swoops in from the left for the kill.

Lon’qu doesn’t take the time to contemplate his plan before he moves. In one fluid motion he detaches his grip from Cordelia, swings his leg around to sit side-saddle, and pushes off the pegasus, flying and falling through the air.

The wyvern rider balks as Lon’qu smashes into him—the sudden weight of a fully grown man sends the wyvern spiraling down. The rider abandons his lance, trying to both steady his mount and push Lon’qu off. The myrmidon ducks below his grasping hands while drawing a dagger from his sleeve. He slices off the saddle’s girth, and sees the rider’s eyes bulge with mute terror before he slips off entirely.

Now that he’s been dealt with, Lon’qu swings his legs around so he’s facing the proper way. The wyvern snarls and snaps at its new rider, but Lon’qu clings tenaciously to the damned beast with all he’s got, and the creature ultimately settles.

“Lon’qu!” Cordelia flies down to him, face white. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” He grunts.

“I—I told you to just hold onto me.” Her words are shaky, her composure lost. Lon’qu doesn’t blame her; his heart’s still pounding like a war drum after that stunt, and his body shakes with tremors.

“I couldn’t let you die.” He explains, honestly.

“W-Well, um, do you know how to land?” Cordelia changes the topic. Lon’qu glances down. He can see the mob of soldiers, both Ylissean and Plegian, but isn’t close enough to tell who’s winning.

“Not at all.”

“Right.” She nods jerkily. “Copy me, then.”

He mimics Cordelia’s movements, and together they land a little way behind the Ylissean rear. The juddering landing makes his teeth clack. The pegasus knight immediately dismounts and picks through the dead bodies, searching for a replacement lance. Lon’qu staggers away from the wyvern, legs like jelly.

“I must go.” Announces Cordelia. “Do you want a lift back to battle?”

He waves her off. “I’d much rather run.”

“As would I.” She pauses before climbing back atop her pegasus, bloodstained lance in hand. She turns back to face him. “Stay safe.”

“….You as well.”

As she alights once more, Lon’qu sets out for the rest of the Shepherds at a brisk jog, his sheathed sword smacking lightly at the side of his leg. He assesses the situation as he gets closer: the Plegians have numbers, but the Shepherds’ skill seems to be more than enough to overwhelm them.

This far back, there’s no sign of Robin. He’s probably near the front of the force, because where Prince Chrom goes, he goes. The first Shepherd he runs into is Gregor. He doesn’t seem to be struggling terribly, but could use a hand. Lon’qu slips seamlessly by his side.

“Is little swordsman having finished with the flying?” The older man rumbles.

“Enough flying for a long time.” Lon’qu confirms. After this is all over, he really needs to have a talk with Robin. He’s not meant to fight in the air.

He presses his back to Gregor’s, drawing his silver sword, and before long he finds himself in a haze. One after another, the Plegian soldiers fall by his sword. He steps over at least ten fifteen corpses, finished by his own blade. His muscles burn but fatigue will not touch him. For Robin, and for his Khan, he shall do all that he can to put an end to the mad king.

* * *

It’s all gone wrong, in the most terrible sense imaginable. Right as they were about to seize victory, the mad king wrested it from their grasp. As Captain Phila and the other pegasus knights fell, Lon’qu had to restrain Cordelia, lest she add herself to the casualties. And then, so the prince would not have to forsake the fire emblem, the Exalt sacrificed herself.

Their rescue mission thwarted, with more Risen and Plegians arriving by the second, the Shepherds were given little choice but to run.

The escape from Plegia is hell in every sense of the word. Weighed down by absolute failure and the sopping, frigid rain, the Shepherds cut a path through good men who only raise their weapons against them out of loyalty to their general. The fight is messy and sloppy, all of them sustaining far more injuries than they should have. The combined powers of Lissa, Libra, and Lady Maribelle are swiftly spent, their emergency supply of vulneraries nearly exhausted.

Lon’qu has never been more relieved to see Olivia in his life, as she approaches them on horseback, the faint outlines of a caravan in the distance promising a respite from marching.

They all load into the carriages, and even Nowi is unable to muster the energy to complain about the cramped travel. Lon’qu is wedged in between Gregor and Ricken. He shrugged off his coat—the thick fur is too soggy with rainwater to be anything but uncomfortable—so he welcomes their extra warmth, even if Gregor’s snores are obnoxiously loud. But Gregor and the rattling of the carriage are not enough to keep him up, and Lon’qu slips into a weary sleep.

* * *

Lon’qu is awoken as the carriage judders to a halt, causing him to bonk heads with Ricken.

“Ow,” The mage complains, rubbing at his skull. “Are we there already?”

“It’s doubtful.” Lon’qu is unaware how long he’s slept, but the journey from Plegia to the East Khan’s fortress takes several days. Tired as he was, he doubts he’s slept _that_ long.

After shrugging on his coat—which is now only slightly damp—he picks his way over drowsy Shepherds to the front of the carriage.

“Why have we stopped?” He asks the driver. The man points ahead to the other carriages.

“They called for a halt.”

Someone exits the front-most carriage, and starts walking down the row, talking with the drivers before moving down. As the figure approaches their carriage, they come into clear view: it’s Robin.

The tactician barely looks at him, addressing the carriage driver.

“Let everyone know we’re taking a brief break. Everyone is free to stretch their legs; food will be prepared shortly.”

And then he’s gone, shuffling over to the next carriage. Lon’qu frowns. Had something shifted between them? What had he done wrong? No, he was reading into this too deeply—Robin is probably too wrapped up in war tactics to concern himself with anything else.

Lon’qu steps out of the carriage, stretching stiff limbs. They’ve left Plegia’s deserts far behind, the land beneath his feet rich with green grass, the horizon full of evergreen trees. He walks into the woods for a few minutes, until he can find an isolated spot. After relieving himself, he starts heading back to the caravan; a meal sounds really good right about now.

He’s halfway back when he hears the distinctive sound of a woman crying. With one hand on his sword, Lon’qu edges towards the source. He freezes as he discovers Cordelia, weeping by a stream. He was prepared to defend a woman in danger—he’s not prepared to comfort a woman who’s grieving.

Lon’qu takes a step back, but the snap of his boot on twigs makes Cordelia leap up. Scrubbing her tears away with one hand, she hefts her lance in the other, preparing to throw.

“Who’s there? S-Show yourself!”

Rather than get impaled and meet a rather undignified end, Lon’qu reveals himself.

“O-Oh.” Cordelia falters, lowering her weapon. “My apologies.”

“It’s alright.”

They stand there in awkward silence for a moment, Lon’qu unsure if it’s alright for him to go or not, when Cordelia suddenly bursts into tears again.

“Oh—don’t—” He’s flustered. The proper thing to do would be to go over and comfort her, but his legs remain locked in place.

“No, I understand, I don’t expect you to—” The pegasus knight wipes at her eyes, an embarrassed flush on her cheeks. “I’m sorry you have to see this.”

A small part of Lon’qu is disgusted. In war death is expected. Even in times of peace, life is not guaranteed; a truth Lon’qu has bitterly come to accept. But he quashes that small part of him. His life has taken a different path than hers. He’s grown jaded and disillusioned, but this young genius still has an innocence about her, in spite of the war they’re embroiled in.

“I actually wanted to thank you, Lon’qu.” She’s regained some composure, but her voice is still shaky.

“Oh?”

“For—earlier. If you hadn’t grabbed me, I might not have been here right now.”

It had been an act of desperation. Cordelia’s pegasus had been downed, so she had joined the other Shepherds near the end of the fight. As Captain Phila and the others were surrounded by Risen, Cordelia tore after them. Even after Lon’qu tackled her to the ground, she had continued to kick and punch and bite until they heard the thuds of bodies hitting the ground.

“I’m sorry for the way I did it.” Even if it was to save her life, the way he restrained her is an uncomfortable memory.

“No, I deserved it—I allowed my emotions to get the better of me. I was losing my family _again_ , I was helpless _again_ to stop it, and it was. Well. Rather hard to handle.” She exhales deeply. “I feel a little better for talking about this. Sumia is my dear friend, but I couldn’t come to her with this.” With no warning, she engulfs him in a hug. “Thank you.”

Lon’qu stiffens, massively uncomfortable, but he can’t just shove her off of him.

They’re interrupted by a delicate cough. Cordelia separates from Lon’qu, blush flaming full-force on her cheeks.

“Lady Lissa!”

Lon’qu turns, and sure enough, behind him is Lissa, hands planted on her hips.

“Enough canoodling, you two! It’s time to eat.” Though she’s joking, it’s plain to Lon’qu her cheer is little more than an act. Her smile is forced, stretched a touch too wide to be authentic.

“W-Wait, that’s not—” Cordelia’s protests are ignored as Lissa turns on her heel, marching back to join the others.

Lon’qu can only pray Lissa keeps quiet about what she thought she saw.

* * *

Their stay at Khan Flavia’s fortress is brief. After remaining just long enough to resupply and rejuvenate the company’s morale, they’re back on the road again to meet King Gangrel’s army.

Several days into their march, after they’ve set up camp for the night, word spreads through the Shepherds like wildfire: Robin has collapsed.

Lon’qu hurries through the tents, and finds that a sizable crowd of Shepherds has bunched up by the entrance to Robin’s tent. His stomach churns—could he really have gotten so sick so swiftly?

Lon’qu squeezes past Stahl and Frederick to get inside. Someone had taken it upon themselves to stack Robin’s books in a few piles in the corner of the tent, freeing up more of the space. A chair had been fetched from somewhere, and Lissa sits upon it by Robin’s cot, using her staff to cast a wave of healing magic upon the tactician. Robin shudders and shakes under a mountain of blankets, every now and then breaking into a wet-sounding cough.

As soon as Lissa’s healing spell tapers off, Prince Chrom nearly pounces upon his sister.

“So what’s wrong with him?”

“I definitely healed his wounds after the battle with General Mustafa. This isn’t illness from an infection. I think he’s just sick, Chrom.”   

“ _Just_ sick?”

“Don’t get short with me,” Lissa snaps. “I’m sure tromping through the rain and cold did him no good.”

The prince frowns. “He did seem a little unwell to me back at Ferox, but he dismissed my concerns. I never would’ve started the march if he had just _told_ me.” He sighs. “Is there anything you can do?”

“You know as well as I do that magic doesn’t work like that. I can close up wounds, I can expunge magic-related inflictions—but naturally-caused sickness? There’s little I can do for it.” Lissa looks up at Prince Chrom, whose lips have pressed into a thin line. “We shouldn’t move him, Chrom.”

Everyone looks to the prince, curious to his decision. If he tries to suggest pressing on, Lon’qu might forget his sworn fealty and lash out.

But Prince Chrom is kind-hearted, perhaps to a fault. “We stay put for now, then. We’ll take as long as Robin needs to recover. I won’t dive into a battle like this without my master tactician.” He squeezes his sister’s shoulder. “Do what you have to to get him up again. Now Frederick, with me. We must make some adjustments to our strategy.”

“Very good, milord.”

The group parts to let Prince Chrom and Frederick leave, and then next thing they know they’re being shooed away by Lissa.

“He won’t get better with the lot of you breathing down his neck.” The Shepherds reluctantly disperse, but Lon’qu lingers.

“Lon’qu, I know you and Robin are friends,” Lissa starts. “So I know you’re worried about him. But he’s going to be fine, really. He just needs time to recover.

“Lissa, I want to…” Gods, why is this so hard for him to express? “…I want to help look after him.”

“Oh, I can take care of him! It’s my job, after all.” Her brows crease in confusion. “Besides, wouldn’t you like to spend some quality time with a certain…pegasus knight?”

Lon’qu is baffled. What is she hedging at? She can’t mean Cordelia, can she? He’s barely interacted with her, and besides; he isn’t interested.

“No, that’s not…I want to help.”

“Alright.” She softens, seeing he’s not saying this lightly. “We can watch over him in shifts. That’ll free up some time for me to get some training in.”

After their encounter with the assassins, Lissa took up axe training with Libra. The war monk is either an excellent teacher, or Lissa, a gifted student; while she cannot compare to more seasoned warriors, such as Sully and Gregor, in a few short weeks she’s become a fighter to be reckoned with.

“Tell me what I need to do.” Lon’qu is sure Robin will recover, but there’s still a niggling part of him that fears the worst. He will do all he can to ensure that doesn’t happen.

“There’s not much we _can_ do.” Lissa admits. “It doesn’t seem like he’s going to wake up anytime soon, so we need to make sure he stays hydrated. Feeding him broth will help make up for the nutrients he’s missing without meals.”

Robin coughs, curling in on himself. He mumbles lightly, something indecipherable. Lissa frowns with sympathy.

“I’ll fetch him some right now, so I can show you how to feed him properly. Wouldn’t want our tactician to choke to death on his food, would we?”

She slips from the tent, and after a moment Lon’qu gathers the courage to sit by Robin’s bedside. The poor tactician looks even worse up close, squirming uncomfortably in his sleep. He jerks, kicking some of the blankets off. Lon’qu tucks the covers around him again, and notices that Robin is becoming more and more agitated, twisting and turning.

His murmurs become louder, more pronounced, and Lon’qu can make out some of the rambling: “No, please, I can fix it, just give me a chance, please.”

Lon’qu tries to soothe him. He takes Robin’s clammy hand in his own, squeezing it comfortingly.

“I’m sorry!” Robin cries out. Tears father in the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Lon’qu rumbles. “You’ve done the best you’re able.”

At first his words have little effect, but as Lon’qu continues on in a low, comforting voice, Robin slowly settles down again, his feverish words trailing off entirely.

Lon’qu feels a prickle on the nape of his neck, and tenses. Something’s not right. His senses strain to pinpoint— _there_. Someone is breathing inside the tent, aside from Robin and Lon’qu himself.

In one fluid motion Lon’qu draws his sword, pointing it at the stacks of books.

“Who’s there?” He demands. “Show yourself.”

The breathing cuts off, but they make no move to reveal themselves. Lon’qu knocks one of the book stacks over, drawing out a girlish yelp from the eavesdropper. Out from the pile of books rises Tharja, looking livid.

“What do you think you’re doing in here?” Rage soaks his words. He has never liked the dark mage, from the moment she joined up with the Shepherds. She easily turned her back on her kin, and for what? Curiosity? Boredom? Whatever her reason, it is not because she believes in the Ylissean cause.

“You think he cares about you?” Tharja hisses, picking her way over the books to come closer. She doesn’t fear his blade, and she’s right not to—despite how incensed he is right now, he won’t go for the kill.

“Is that what this is about? You’re jealous?”

“Jealous?” She nearly shrieks. “There’s nothing to be jealous of. You’ll never be able to give him what he needs, like I can!”

“I’m back!” Lissa announces happily, balancing a bowl of broth in her hands. Her smile falters as she takes in the scene. “Um…?”

“Get out of here, Tharja.” Lon’qu snarls. “And if I catch you again I will not stop with threats. I will _act_.”

He sheathes his sword, allowing the dark mage to leave. With a withering glower, Tharja slinks from the tent.

Lissa shudders, the broth dangerously close to spilling with the movement. “I had heard the rumors about Tharja’s crush on Robin, but I didn’t realize it was _this_ bad. Good thing Robin has you here to defend him.”

Lon’qu only grunts, a shade embarrassed. She comes over, setting the bowl on the chair before she crouches down beside the cot. “Alright. Now watch and learn.”

* * *

It takes five long days for Robin’s fever to break. Lissa and Lon’qu alternate shifts in caring for the ill tactician. The rest of the Shepherds remain in an uneasy limbo, anxious to push on to defeat the mad king, but equally anxious not to begin the campaign without their ace. The pause in action allows Lon’qu to think long and hard about his relationship with Robin, and to come to a decision about it.

When Robin finally stirs, coming into wakefulness, he is calm, ready. A speech prepared. He should have just enough time before Lissa arrives to get out everything he needs to say.

Robin cracks open his dark eyes, no longer glazed with fever.

“Lon’qu?” His voice is a hoarse whisper.

Lon’qu helps him into a sitting position before fetching some water. He’s still a touch too shaky and drowsy to get a firm hold on the glass, so Lon’qu holds the drink for him, tipping it to his mouth so he can drink.

Robin finishes the glass quickly, and Lon’qu sets it aside.

“How are you feeling?”

Robin’s eyebrows furrow. “What are you doing here?” He sounds more curious than anything.

“Looking after you, of course. Again—how are you feeling?”

“Much better than the last time I remember being awake.” His eyes widen, and he moves to leave the cot. Lon’qu pushes him back down. “Has anything happened with Gangrel?”

“Calm down.” He keeps his firm hold on the other until Robin stops struggling. “There’s been no word of Gangrel advancing. And Prince Chrom has kept the Shepherds stationary until you recovered.”

Robin exhales deeply, mind churning. “I dread to ask, but…how long was I out?”

“Five days.”

“Five?!” Robin curses under his breath. “Now our weather estimates are going to be off, and the full moon was three days ago.”

Lon’qu stops him before he shifts his mind to only thinking about tactics and strategies.

“Robin,” He breaks in. “Before I fetch the prince for you, I’d like to tell you something.” Robin watches him expectantly, and Lon’qu plucks up his courage.

“It isn’t exactly the most opportune moment for me to tell you, but the matter has weighed heavily on my mind for some time.”

Robin urges him ahead. “Please, Lon’qu. Tell me. I want to hear it.”

“…First, I’d like to apologize for the other day. That was rude of me.”

“Why did you run out like that?”

“You made me…uncomfortable.” As he gears up for what he has to say, he knows he should put some distance between them, and yet, he can’t help but lean in closer.

“Uncomfortable how?” His voice grows softer, inviting Lon’qu to lean in closer still to hear him.

“You made me feel like—like—” He licks his lips.

Robin reaches out, gently pulling Lon’qu’s face closer until their lips touch. Lon’qu freezes up, his well-prepared and thought-out apology for his affections sailing from his mind. Thus, it is Robin who eventually ends the kiss. He draws back a few inches, studying Lon’qu’s features, searching for acceptance or dismissal, love or hate.

Lon’qu’s brain finally starts firing again, so he grabs a fistful of Robin’s hair and drags him close for a second kiss.

When they part, Lon’qu can feel a blush flaming on his face.

“But I thought—Lissa told me that  you and Cordelia were—”

“Forget about that.” Lon’qu growls. “None of that matters now.”

He seizes Robin in yet another kiss—though there’s no complaints there—but pulls apart at the sound of a bowl shattering.

Robin and Lon’qu look to the entrance of the tent. The myrmidon’s joy instantly morphs into fear—Lissa has seen them. Her mouth hangs open in surprise, a blush blooming on her face.

“Lissa—” Lon’qu starts, but that’s as far as he gets before she flees.

Robin struggles to get out of the cot, legs tangled in the nest of blankets, body still weakened from illness. Lon’qu urges him to stay put.

“I’ll find her. You stay here. I’ll return soon.”

He squeezes Robin’s hand. Already contact between them feels easy. Perhaps because he’s practiced such things a thousand times in his fantasies.

Lon’qu ducks out of the tent just in time to see Lissa round the corner at the end of the row. He pursues her, catching up quickly.

“Lissa.”

She yips, startled and flustered. “Hello Lon’qu, fancy meeting you here—”

“Lissa.” He cuts off her nervous ramblings. “Let’s discuss this.”

“Yes. I think that would be best.”

She ushers him into her own tent. A bit larger than the average Shepherd’s, the tent is filled with a curious mix of axes, staves, and failed attempts at crochet.

“So.” Lissa starts, awkwardly, then stops. Just when Lon’qu is about to speak, she continues on: “You. And, um. Robin.”

“Yes.”

“Well I can’t say I expected it.” She confesses. “I mean, I’m not as ignorant as Chrom thinks I am when it comes to this stuff. I’ve…heard of such relations between men before. A lot of them are like that, in Sumia’s books.” She claps her cheeks with her hands, shaking her head. “But I’ve never known anyone…like that before.”

“Lissa—”

“I—I don’t care!” The princess doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise. “Stuff like that doesn’t matter. Date a stump, for all I care!”

“I hope you’d be concerned if I professed my affection to an inanimate object.” He says wryly.

The smile slips from her face as she grows more serious. “I won’t tell Chrom, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not sure if he’d understand.”

A wave of gratitude crashes over him. “You realize how serious this is. You cannot gossip about this, as you did with your imagined romance between Cordelia and I.”

She winces. “Hey, I thought I was helping! That’s what it looked like to me!”

“Lissa, I need you to promise me. Not a word of this to anyone.”

She places a hand over her heart. “I swear to it, not a word. You two deserve to be happy.”

There’s not much that needs to be said after that, so after a firm nod of farewell, Lon’qu exits the tent. Before returning to Robin, he makes a quick detour.

The tactician watches him closely as he enters the tent; he must’ve been impatient for news.

“She won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“And what’s that?” Robin’s attention is drawn to what Lon’qu has tucked under one arm. Lon’qu unfolds it—he’s brought his own cot over. Robin says nothing for a moment, and dread settles in Lon’qu’s chest. This was a foolish idea, he is moving too fast—

But Robin says: “Bring it around the other side, so you won’t be in plain view if someone enters.”

Lon’qu sets his cot flush to Robin’s, so it seems almost as if they’re sharing one bed. He settles into his cot, which creaks under his weight. Lon’qu is not one for many material pleasures, but he’ll be more than pleased when this campaign is over and he no longer has to use these damned cots that creak with every subtle shift of their user.

Robin rolls over so they’re facing each other. He offers one of his many blankets to Lon’qu; he accepts it.

“Um, I don’t think I have the energy yet for any sort of…activities.” Robin’s cheeks color. “Is it alright if we just…lie here for a while?”

“Of course.” Pent up desire or no, even Lon’qu isn’t ready to propel that far in their relationship in one day.

He can tell Robin is growing drowsy again, as he struggles to keep his eyes open. Lon’qu reaches out and grabs the tactician’s hand, slowly stroking it with his thumb.

He smiles at him. “I’m so happy.” Robin breathes.

Lon’qu’s lips raise in a rare smile of his own. “As am I.”

* * *

Lon’qu must’ve been more tired than he thought, for both of them sleep through the remainder of the day, through the night, until the next morning. When he awakens, he knows he should leave. But he wants to take a moment to savor the sight before him, of Robin still relaxed in sleep.

Or not.

“Robin, are you awake?” Comes a voice from outside the tent—Prince Chrom.

Lon’qu nudges Robin awake. He stirs, blinking sleepily.

Around a yawn he asks, “What are you doing?”

“Hello? Robin?”

Robin snaps into full awareness as he hears the prince’s voice. Panicked, Robin shoves at Lon’qu, and he tumbles off the small cot.

He swears as he hits the ground. Robin peers over at him, barely stifling nervous laughter.

“Sorry, sorry—just—hide behind the books, alright?” Robin whispers. Then, louder: “I’m awake, Chrom.”

Lon’qu is reminded of Tharja as he settles in behind the stacks of books as Prince Chrom enters. The key difference between them, though, is Robin knows he’s here and wants him to be here.

“Lissa informed me last night that you’d awoken, but that you shouldn’t be disturbed until today.”

Naga bless that woman. Lon’qu hadn’t intended to fall asleep beside Robin, but instead quietly slip out after Robin drifted off again. If the prince had walked in on them last night, well. Their tryst would’ve ended before it begun.

“I wouldn’t have been good company last night.” Robin explains. “I wasn’t up long before I fell asleep again.”

“But how are you now?”

“I’m fit to start marching again.”

“Robin.” He says the name full of disbelief. “I don’t want you to sacrifice your health for a few days of marching.”

“Chrom, I appreciate the concern, but I am fine now.”

The two stare at each other. Prince Chrom must see the honesty in his face, because he backs down.

“Very well. Frederick and I have been reworking our attack strategy in your absence.”

“Yes, I’ll come with you to look over them—” Robin scrambles out of bed, then seems to remember he’s in his smallclothes.

The prince laughs. “Get dressed and fed first. Then we’ll talk strategy.” He claps Robin on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’re alright, my friend.”

They trade goodbyes, then Robin beckons Lon’qu back out to join him again. Robin hurries to get dressed, and Lon’qu assists him, gathering his stray articles of clothing and handing them to him.

“Listen, for this battle…I want us to pair up.” Lon’qu requests.

But Robin denies him. “We can’t. I need to stick close to Chrom to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid, like challenge Gangrel on his own.”

“Two on one doesn’t make the odds of survival that much greater.”

Robin sucks in a short breath, irritated. “If we’re going to be together, you have to let me do my job.”

“I can’t lose you in this battle.” Lon’qu stresses. “You know so little about me, about where I’ve come from. You don’t understand that I can’t lose you.”

“Do you think it’s easy for me, either? Lon’qu, when I make tactical decisions, I bet everyone’s lives that they’ll succeed. I cannot allow emotions to overrule my judgment.”

Lon’qu growls, irritated with no way to slough off the feeling constructively.

Robin draws close, placing his hands overtop Lon’qu’s, holding them at chest height.

“Trust in me, and I’ll trust in you. We’re both going to make it through this.”

Lon’qu swoops down for a kiss, a touch too desperate, and their teeth clack together at first. He pulls apart after some of the nervous tension has ebbed.

“Promise me one thing, then.”

“What?” Robin asks, still a bit breathless from the kiss.

“Don’t pair me with another flying unit again. I’m not made for it.”

* * *

They charge into battle with the thrill of victory already in their veins. The bulk of the mad king’s army has deserted en masse. On the downside, only the most brutal, most severely loyal to Gangrel have remained behind. As energized as they are, the Shepherds must maintain their cool to defeat the enemy.

Lon’qu has been paired with Stahl, which basically means the myrmidon hitches a ride on the man’s horse until they reach the enemy. That’s fine with him—on foot he’d be unable to be in the thick of the battle until after the first wave was over.

They swarm across the desert to reach the Plegians, the two armies colliding in a mess of blood and steel and magic. Robin and Prince Chrom spearhead the attack, heading straight for the Plegian king. The pegasus knights veer from the group as a battalion of mages try to cut in from the left. Lady Maribelle follows behind, in case the mages are carrying wind-type magic.

As they reach the fray, Stahl slows just enough for Lon’qu to dismount before urging his horse back into a gallop, building up enough speed to run through the nearest Plegian with his lance.

Lon’qu soon locks weapons with a Plegian swordsman. The man is larger, but Lon’qu is quicker. Speed wins out in the end, and Lon’qu is flicking the dead man’s blood from his sword.

Panic flutters in his ribcage as he glances over to check on Stahl. The cavalier is successfully fighting off two Plegians from the front, but a third is creeping up from behind, axe raised to slice into the horse’s buttock.

“Stahl!” Lon’qu shouts, but his warning is swallowed in the din of fighting all around them. Lon’qu uses the only weapon he has—his sword. He’s too far to attack directly, so he hurls his sword at the Plegian with all his might. Lon’qu is not strong enough that the sword impales him. But it does knock the Plegian off-balance, long enough for Stahl to jerk his horse away from the potential threat.

Stahl’s horse has been saved, and thus his mobility and fighting style, but now Lon’qu is uncomfortably unarmed in the middle of battle, save for a few short knives tucked into his boots and sleeves.

He rushes to reclaim his thrown weapon, but is blocked by a new soldier. Lon’qu dodges the man’s attacks, but he’s unable to break past him; the man is too sturdy to buckle if he tries to swipe his legs out from under him.

Thankfully, help soon arrives as Stahl skewers the man from behind. They exchange nods of mutual thanks, and Stahl watches his back as he runs over and snatches up his sword again.

A girlish scream stands out amongst the other sounds of the battlefield, and Lon’qu whirls, searching for the source. There, several yards behind him, Olivia is barely fending off a Plegian soldier.

Blood boiling, Lon’qu dashes over to the fight, and swiftly ends it. He pulls Olivia up off the ground by one of her delicate wrists.

“What are you _doing_?” She was supposed to remain behind with the caravan. She is a dancer, not a warrior.

“I—I can fight too!” Her lower lip wobbles, betraying her fear.

“Khan Basilio will be furious when he finds out what you’ve done.” His mind is awhirl with half-formed strategies. He cannot leave Olivia alone to the caravan herself, but he is needed on the battlefield, and simply doesn’t have the time to follow her back.

“I’m not going back, not when I can help here.”

They’re wasting too much time. He needs to get back.

“Fine.” He snarls. “But you stay by my side the entire time, understand?” His Khan would never forgive him if he let anything happen to her—hell, he’d never forgive himself.

She nods meekly, and sticks close behind him as they edge back into the fray, providing some much-needed support to Stahl.

Lon’qu defeats every enemy that challenges him. Olivia acts mainly as a second pair of eyes, warning him of incoming attacks from archers and mages.

Crackling thunder in the distance can’t help but draw his attention. There are no clouds in the sky; the sun has been beating down on them quite harshly all day. It’s unnatural, but far too strong to be called forth by a thoron tome.

“Is that a levin sword?” Olivia asks him.

“Yes.” He confirms. Swords infused with magic, especially magic of that caliber, are highly rare. Gangrel is likely to be the weilder, which means that Prince Chrom and Robin have finally engaged him.

Lon’qu wants nothing more than to go assist them, but fresh reinforcements have arrived on the field, heading straight for the mad king to give their support. He can’t allow them to distract and overwhelm the prince and the tactician, so Lon’qu and the rest of the Shepherds do the best they can do keep the Plegians from passing through. Behind them, the sound of lightning comes faster and faster, then abruptly cuts off. Someone has been defeated. But who? The Shepherds finish off the dwindled army of Plegians, and as one they surge towards the site of the confrontation.

Cheers erupt as everyone arrives on the scene. Gangrel lies defeated. Prince Chrom and Robin seem singed, but are no more heavily injured than the rest of them. They step away from the king’s corpse as they reunite with the Shepherds.

“Captain!” Sumia lands her pegasus right before the prince. She rushes at him, and he takes her in his arms, kissing her with gusto.

Some of the Shepherds—Vaike and Lissa by far being the loudest of the bunch—hoot and holler at the display. Khan Basilio wolf whistles.

Robin and Lon’qu share a fond, private smile.

They’ve won. The mad king is dead.

**Author's Note:**

> On hiatus until I finish one of my Undertale fics. It will come back, don't worry! :)


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